Transcendence
by ChapterEight
Summary: Tom thought that perhaps fifty years of utter isolation and stagnation in a diary was a small price to pay to gain the advantages of being a living Horcrux, even if he was probably a bit mad from the experience. After all, being mad was no impediment to a Dark Lord.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer:** Of course _Harry Potter _was created by J.K. Rowling and is owned by her and various publishers and licensees. I'm just grateful I get to play with the lovely characters and world.

**Author's Notes: **This is an AU based on the premise that Tom Riddle successfully escaped from the diary in CoS.

**Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, sexual situations (het and slash), underage (over 15), torture, rape/non-con, major and minor character death, "self-cest" (that'd be Tom and Voldemort and/or other Horcruxes in sexual situations, folks).** The version on FFN will remain at the M rating, so the depictions will not be more than you'd see in an R-rated movie or on late-night TV. The more explicit version will be archived at Archive of Our Own; the link is in my profile. I'll let you know at the beginning of a chapter if the versions are different._**  
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Some lines and descriptions in this chapter are either direct quotations or paraphrases from _Chamber of Secrets, _Chapter 17, "The Heir of Slytherin."

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><p>Time is a funny thing when you aren't real. Or at least when you are not a part of the real world, although Tom was real enough, in his own way. He was a real being with a real personality and real desires and real feelings. It's just that he didn't have a real body or any sort of real communication with the outside world, and under those circumstances time had a funny way of losing any real meaning.<p>

He didn't know how long he had been inside the diary before he'd realized that he had no idea how long he'd been inside the diary.

He had quickly learned that there was no way to mark the passing of time, because his surroundings were only the manifestation of his own thoughts. It was day if he wanted it to be day and night if he wanted it to be night. He was at Hogwarts if he wanted to be at Hogwarts, but he could just as easily think another thought and find himself on that godforsaken rocky beach he had sometimes visited as a child.

It had taken him what had seemed like a long time (although since he had no way of keeping track, he couldn't say how long it had taken with any certainty) to learn how to discipline his thoughts in such a way that his surroundings would remain the same until he actually wanted them to change, even if he allowed his mind to wander to other subjects or places.

What had been worse was when he had discovered that the only things he could invent in his surroundings were things he had already experienced. He could think himself into the restricted section of the Hogwarts library, but he couldn't read any of the books that he hadn't already read. They appeared on the shelf of his mindscape because he had looked at the stacks before, but if he pulled a new book off the shelf and opened it, the pages were blank. He could fantasize about being on a tropical beach, but the sand and water didn't feel real and the details were blurry if he tried to look at them.

In that way he supposed that it was something of a blessing that time had no meaning to him, because if he had actually been able to count every second of his isolation then he would have gone even madder than he had.

His other self—his real self—had communicated with him from time to time in the beginning, but he had never given any sort of indication how long it had been between communications. Real-Tom might have spoken with him every day or every ten years for all he was able to tell, and by the time the communications had stopped he was long past thinking about such things. For all he had known, Real-Tom had last spoken to him only hours before.

He had been shocked to the very core of his being when the date had materialized suddenly in his consciousness.

_August 19, 1992_.

He had wanted to know what the significance of the date was at first, because Real-Tom had never seen the need to note any dates before. Then the next words had materialized and he had realized that Real-Tom wasn't the person writing to him at all.

_Dear Diary…_

Ginny Weasley had found him inside one of her secondhand textbooks (the indignity of which was not lost on him who had long imagined that one day he would never have to buy secondhand books with donated money ever again). It had taken carefully worded questions and skillful directing of their conversations to learn that Lucius Malfoy had probably been the one to slip him in with the girl's things. He assumed that Lucius Malfoy was Abraxas Malfoy's son, and although Lucius hadn't even been a twinkle in Abraxas's eye when Tom had been put into his diary, he further assumed that Lucius must be a follower of Real-Tom and that Real-Tom had been behind his diary ending up with Ginny Weasley. He had therefore been content to follow the original plan meant for him… until he had learned from Ginny about the fate of his real self.

Things had changed after that.

First Ginny had given him back some semblance of time. He had quickly worked out her schedule from her inane ramblings about her classes, and so he had begun to mark the passing of days and weeks. When she had become so addicted to him that she spoke to him at every given opportunity—between classes, during meals—he had begun to mark the passing of hours and even minutes.

Next Ginny had given him back his own purpose. The more he was able to find out about recent history and in particular about Harry Potter, the more he turned away from the purpose Real-Tom had given him. What did scaring Mudbloods away from Hogwarts matter when Lord Voldemort had utterly failed at the hands of a mere infant? He needed to find out the hows and whys. He began to think of himself as real again, the madness from such utter isolation and intellectual stagnancy slowly slipping away until he could once again clearly define the boundaries between what was real and what was his imagination.

Ginny had also given him Harry Potter, although she had done her level best to deny him that. He had been quite cross with her for stealing him back—after all, what right had she to keep him from Harry Potter when she had been the one to throw him away, to try to destroy him, in the first place? But that was no matter in the end, because Ginny had been the reason the little hero had come down to the Chamber.

The last thing Ginny would give him would be a body.

As he stared at her nearly completely lifeless body lying on the cold stone a few feet from him, he had the fleeting thought that he should enshrine her for all she had done for him. Then Tom smiled at his own romantic notion, because he knew that in reality he would never spare another thought for her after she was no longer in his direct line of sight.

The wand in his grip seemed more substantial now, and he squeezed his fingers around it experimentally. He was almost completely corporeal. It had been so long since he'd had a body that he really didn't remember what it was like and had no idea how much more real he could get at this point, but he could feel that Ginny was still alive, if only barely, so he knew that the process wasn't completed yet.

Still, he gripped the wand tighter, just because he could, as he watched Dumbledore's phoenix swoop down around Salazar's basilisk. What in Slytherin's name was that fool snake doing? Honestly, the continued centuries of isolation must have driven it completely around the bend, and Tom suspected, from his interactions with the beast, that it had never been very smart to begin with.

"KILL THE BOY!" he screamed in irritation. "LEAVE THE BIRD! THE BOY IS BEHIND YOU. SNIFF—SMELL HIM."

He watched with mounting annoyance as the serpent thrashed around, knocking down great pillars as it spun. It would be absolutely annoying to have to repair the Chamber after this. He had half a mind to leave the bloody basilisk all by itself for another fifty years to punish it for its incompetence.

When it struck out at Potter, Tom thought at first that it had succeeded. Then it fell over sideways, away from Potter, and, after a few feeble twitches, stopped moving.

He couldn't see what had happened from where he was standing, but he _could_ see the broken fang lying on the floor next to the boy. Dumbledore's bird settled on the cold stones next to Potter and laid its head on his arm.

Tom walked forward until he was standing over Potter and could clearly see the gaping wound in the boy's arm. "You're dead, Harry Potter. Dead," he told him, his emotions only barely discernable in his voice, as always. "Even Dumbledore's bird knows it. Do you see what he's doing, Potter? He's crying."

The boy swayed, and Tom thought that he might fall over. He took a step back in case the little wretch vomited or something equally as disgusting.

"I'm going to sit here and watch you die, Harry Potter. Take your time. I'm in no hurry."

He smiled to himself again. He considered explaining to Potter about time, but he figured that the boy was well past understanding why he would find it so amusing that Tom's first moments experiencing real time in five decades would be spent watching Real-Tom's vanquisher slowly dying in their Chamber.

"So ends the famous Harry Potter," he said instead. "Alone in the Chamber of Secrets, forsaken by his friends, defeated at last by the Dark Lord he so unwisely challenged. You'll be back with your dear Mudblood mother soon, Harry… She bought you twelve years of borrowed time… but Lord Voldemort got you in the end, as you knew he must…."

But even as he said it, he knew that something was wrong. Potter had stopped swaying, and some of the color was returning to his cheeks.

His eyes fell suddenly on the phoenix, and in a flash it came back to him.

"Get away, bird! Get away from him—" Tom rose his wand to forcibly remove it if necessary. "I said, get away—"

Then the bird took flight, and Tom remained frozen in his surprise.

"Phoenix tears… Of course… healing powers… I forgot…"

He wondered how much else he had forgotten. The years in the diary had been stagnant and monotonous, and although he had attempted to keep himself entertained at first, he had quickly tired of reading the same books and experiencing the same things over and over. When time had no meaning, it didn't really matter if he reread _Magick Moste Evile_ for the thousandth time or if he didn't do anything at all. No matter what he did or didn't do, time passed just as slowly or as quickly, or moved not at all, or all at once—he wasn't sure how to describe it, even in his own thoughts….

Clearly the time away had affected his mind. He sucked in a furious breath and didn't even pause to reflect on how miraculous it was that he was breathing at all.

"But it makes no difference. In fact, I prefer it this way." He peered down at Potter and tried to convince himself that he'd feel better about all he had lost if he directed his anger at the boy. "Just you and me, Harry Potter… you and me…"

He raised Harry's wand and pointed it at the boy's chest.

He heard the bird over his head before he saw it, and it seemed almost as if the diary appeared from nowhere in Potter's lap. Both he and Harry stared at it.

Then Potter's hand darted out and grabbed the broken fang from the floor beside him, and Tom felt something he'd never felt before, even before the diary. His new heart seized in his chest, and his new muscles tensed so much that it was nearly painful. He watched, almost as if time had slowed down, as the diary fluttered on Potter's lap even as the boy brought the fang down.

It flew across the short distance and straight into Tom's chest just before it would have been too late. Tom's muscles reacted a second later and he caught the precious book fast against his body before it could fall to the ground. Potter pulled up short just before the fang plunged into his leg where the diary had been resting just a moment before.

Tom's heart was pounding now. If he had reacted just a split second later… If he hadn't Summoned it in time… If the wand hadn't already been raised…

He swallowed thickly as his wide-eyed gaze met Harry's equally shocked green eyes. It was as if time once again had no meaning, and he had no idea how long they stood there. He didn't even feel the elation he'd thought he would—that he certainly would have, before…—when he felt Ginny die and knew for certain that it was done. He was real.

But it did prod him into action.

"_AVADA KEDAVRA_!" he screamed. Then, without pausing to cringe at the uncontrolled tone of his voice, he span on his heel and ran deeper into the Chamber, away from Dumbledore's bird and the fang and the bodies of Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> There are two main motivators for this story. First, Tom Riddle is one of my favorite characters, and it has always bothered me that Rowling wrote him as so incredibly stupid and slow to react in CoS when elsewhere she describes how brilliant he was. (But I suppose that Harry wouldn't have been able to win in the Chamber if Tom had been as smart as he was supposed to have been, and Rowling did need Harry to win….) So I thought about possible explanations for why he was the way he was in CoS.

Second, the idea of Horcruxes is fascinating, and the diary Horcrux in particular acts so differently from the Horcruxes we see later in HBP that it can lead to all sorts of ideas. Tom (the diary) is apparently a separate entity entirely from Voldemort (the man), as he doesn't share memories or knowledge with Voldemort, and later on in DH we know that Voldemort himself also isn't aware of and doesn't have any connected with the diary or any other Horcruxes. Plus _what if_ Tom had succeeded in getting a body… He would presumably still be one of Voldemort's Horcruxes even if he was in corporeal form, so how exactly would the mechanics of that work, and how would that change things with both Tom and Voldemort in the world?

And so this story sprouted from the above thoughts.

For anyone who is reading my other story, _The Other Side_, never fear; I have not stopped work on that story. In fact, I have been steadily pounding away at the next chapter and hope to release it in the next week or two, and I don't expect this story to interfere.


	2. Life and Death

**Author's Notes:** Boy, the beginning of this chapter feels almost like a three-ring circus what with all the people Tom has to encounter!

There are various notes at the end.

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><p>Tom Riddle did not feel fear. Or much of anything, really, but certainly not fear.<p>

Although he had often caused it in other people, he had never personally experienced a racing heart or the feeling of jumping out of his own skin. He had watched others wipe sweaty palms on their trousers and had seen their eyes go wide in terror, but he had never personally experienced those sensations.

Until he had watched Harry Potter almost destroy him.

He supposed that was the difference between having a phobia of an abstract idea, of something far off in the future, and almost watching it come to fruition right in front of his eyes. Certainly he had a phobia of death, but no matter how irrational his thoughts had been, his _reactions_ had always been rather rational. He had endeavored to find a way to defeat death. And he had succeeded. He had defeated his phobia, conquered death.

Now, as he leaned heavily on a damp stone wall deep in the Chamber, bending forward with his hands on his knees and his head hanging down, trying to breathe deeply and calm his racing heart, he thought that perhaps this wasn't the ideal time to contemplate his own psychology.

He was annoyed at himself for reacting this way. He was annoyed that he had been robbed of the moment of elation he'd expected to enjoy when he got a body. He was annoyed with himself for being annoyed.

And he had more pressing matters to deal with at the moment.

Ginny and Potter would be missed before long, if they weren't already, and that thrice-damned bird would surely go running to its thrice-damned owner. The longer he waited the more difficult it would be to get out of the castle. It had only been a few minutes at the most, so hopefully he still had time.

He took a circuitous route back towards the entrance so as to avoid the main chamber where _it_ had happened. It was really too bad that there was only one entrance to the Chamber, especially when he discovered a pile of rocks blocking his way to the pipe. There was quite a large hole in the wall of rubble, and he peered cautiously through it.

A pair of blue eyes peered back at him.

"Who're you?" demanded the boy.

"Tom," he replied truthfully. It wasn't as if he had anything to lose by doing so.

The boy pulled back far enough that Tom could see freckles and ghastly orange hair. "Where's Harry? And Ginny! Where's my sister?"

_Ah, so this must be Ron_, Tom thought.

"They're here with me, but they're injured," he answered, infusing his tone with the urgency and near panic he felt for himself. "Is there anyone else there who can help us? Do you have any professors with you?"

"No," replied the boy, clearly panicking now himself. "Let's make the hole bigger, then we—"

But he didn't get any further, because Tom, satisfied that Ron Weasley was the only immediate threat, aimed Potter's wand through the hole and said, "_Avada Kedavra_."

He couldn't see Ron fall, but he could hear the satisfying thump as he hit the stone floor like a bag of rocks.

It was only a moment's work to make the opening large enough for him to comfortably crawl through. He stepped over Ron's body with barely a glance downwards and quickly crossed over to the pipe leading up to the girl's bathroom. There he met a blond-haired man who was sitting at the edge of the pipe.

"Hello!" he greeted Tom cheerfully. "Who are you?"

"The boy said he didn't have any professors with him!"

The man smiled in agreement. "Oh, I'm sure he hasn't. I'd make an awful professor."

Tom could only stare in astonishment. "Who are you?"

"Well, I don't know," he replied. Then, as if he found nothing worrying about that fact, he asked, "I say, do you know where we are? Strange sort of place, isn't it?"

There was really no telling whether the man was serious or not, but Tom had quite finished wasting time. A moment later he was stepping over another body and up into the pipe. He could clearly hear the lament of the phoenix from behind him, still in the Chamber, and he hurried to levitate himself up to the entrance. Then he stepped out of the sink only to come face to face with a girl he'd never thought to see again.

"_Tom_?" she asked, clearly as incredulous as he was.

He hadn't known her in school. He had learned who she was after he'd killed her, of course, but only because of all the articles in the newspaper and the memorial service they'd for her. Still, he wasn't at all surprised that she knew him—everybody knew him!—even if it was _quite_ inconvenient. She could easily identify him by name to anyone who asked. And certainly she knew now where the entrance to the Chamber was, even if she hadn't before.

He sighed in defeat.

"It was _you_?" she continued, her voice going higher with each syllable, though he wouldn't have said it was possible if anyone had asked him before he'd heard it for himself. Then she spun in midair and streaked out of the bathroom, screeching, "MURDERER! MURDERER IN THE BATHROOM! MURDERER!"

He sighed again, casting a Disillusionment Charm on his body and Muffling Charms on his feet as he hurried out of the bathroom and down the corridor. He slipped into the nearest classroom when he heard footsteps rushing towards him, although he felt secure enough in the strength of his charm to stand just inside the doorway and watch as a group rushed past his hiding place. He easily recognized Dumbledore, although the man was significantly older than he had been before Tom went into the diary—fifty years older, in fact. He could have identified the man by his garish robes if by nothing else.

He didn't recognize the others, although he assumed that the two with orange hair must be related to the Weasley children, probably their parents.

_Ah well_, he thought with an easy smile, _fortunately for them they still have five more children. For now_.

After the group had passed by, he quickly stepped out into the corridor behind them and made a beeline for the staircase before they doubled back to look for him. And before anything else happened, with the way this night was going. Fortunately it was the dead middle of the night, so no one else was around and he was able to rush out the grand doors without further hindrance. He made for the Forbidden Forest, because he figured that the first place anyone would look would be towards the gates.

He was breathing heavily by the time he'd made it deep enough in to feel secure about stopping and leaning against a tree. It was very clear to him that this body was brand new and not at all used to physical exertion. Tom absolutely reveled in the feel of his lungs burning and his legs aching. It was painful, but it mean that he was alive, that he was _real_ and no longer practically a non-being stuck in some accursed book for all of eternity.

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><p>He still had a grin on his face and his fingers wrapped around the diary in his pocket when he Apparated into the front drawing room of Malfoy Manor. A house-elf popped into the room, squeaked, and popped back out before he could react to it, so Tom shrugged and settled onto one of the fine velvet sofas. The room had been changed since the last time he'd been here, but he figured that wasn't too much of a surprise, seeing as it had been fifty years. Even pure-bloods redecorated at least once every half century or so.<p>

He hadn't been waiting long before a tall wizard with shoulder-length blond hair Apparated into the room a few feet from him. He appeared angry and disheveled, and he was on the verge of storming out of the room when he caught sight of Tom sprawled elegantly across his furniture. He scrutinized Tom with such intense suspicion that a lesser wizard would have balked.

Tom stared right back.

"I do not believe I have had the pleasure," the man said, finally, his tone stiff with formality and distrust. "Are you waiting for my father?"

Tom had thought at first that he was looking at an older Abraxas, but he quickly realized that it couldn't have been. This wizard was probably only in his late thirties or early forties, and anyway Abraxas would have recognized Tom right off. (He had to wonder, of course, why Abraxas's son, apparently a follower of Lord Voldemort, wouldn't recognize him, even a younger version of himself, but he pushed the thought aside for later consideration.)

He was spared from having to answer when another man appeared in the doorway, apparently having been summoned by the house-elf.

"_Tom_?"

He made no attempt to disguise the shock in his voice. Their eyes met over Lucius's shoulder, and Tom could see the differences in their features now that he could see them at the same time. Lucius's features were sharper than his father's, and he didn't have Abraxas's wide jawline or thin lips.

Then the elder Malfoy seemed to recover himself sufficiently, and he crossed the room in three long strides, shoving past his son in order to kneel in front of Tom.

"Forgive me, My Lord. I forgot myself," he said with every appearance of sincerity. His son made a wounded sort of sound in the back of his throat that Tom could hear from where he was sitting. "Your appearance… You look just as you did in school…. My Lord, how…?"

Tom realized that he was unlikely to be able to pull off a lie about being the Lord Voldemort they knew if he couldn't even recognize his own followers at first glance. However, he was confident that he could manage to simply _omit_ certain information for long enough to buy himself a bit of time to figure out his next move. He hoped that it hadn't been a mistake to come to Malfoy Manor, but he hadn't been able to think of anything else to do, given that he had no money and had little idea about the differences between his own time and now.

Lucius had by this time come to kneel beside his father. "I beg your forgiveness, My Lord. If I had recognized you—"

"Yes, I'm sure," Tom cut him off. "I can overlook your mistake this once. In fact, I believe that I should reward you for the loyal service you have done me."

He removed the diary from his robes and held it near to his body, where the Malfoys could see it but had no chance of touching it.

They were silent for a handful of seconds before Lucius ventured to say, "My Lord, I have constantly thought of how to restore you. Nothing could have prevented me from helping you. I expect no reward for doing what any of your loyal servants should have done."

He was lying, Tom knew. His voice contained an air of flattery and charm that was the hallmark of a man who was trying to make someone believe something that wasn't entirely true, for his own benefit. Tom had practiced tirelessly as a small child to rid his own voice of any such obvious signs that he was insincere.

What was more, Tom knew that there was no way Lucius could have known what would happen when he gave the diary to Ginny Weasley. After all, _Tom himself_ hadn't known that he was capable of restoring himself to a body until he'd actually undertaken to steal Ginny's soul just to see what would happen. Tom would have thought twice about creating Horcruxes if he'd known at the time that they were capable of manifesting themselves as he had now—it wasn't good for business, after all, to have multiple versions of yourself liable to pop out of the woodwork.

He offered the man a cold, humorless smile. Abraxas shuddered from his place on his knees next to his son.

"I doubt that, Lucius." Malfoy looked ready to protest, but a lazy wave of Tom's hand was enough to convince him to snap his mouth closed again. "Still, you were the means of my return, whether you intended it or no, and Lord Voldemort does not forget."

Abraxas finally raised his eyes from the diary to look him in the face. "Will you remain as you are now, My Lord?"

"I imagine that I will," Tom replied confidently, although in reality he did not know the answer. He had long since perfected the art of always appearing to know what he was talking about, and even fifty years in utter social isolation could not make him forget that skill. "I admit that when I created this artifact when I was sixteen, I was not thinking of how my followers in later years would react to a leader who looks as I did then, if I ever had need of using it."

He did wonder privately whether he was legitimately a real person. Would he age? Could he eat? Would he need to sleep? Could he be killed just as any other person could? He would have to test these things for himself at the earliest opportunity.

For now, his answer seemed to satisfy the Malfoys' curiosity on that point.

"Sixteen…" breathed Abraxas, eyeing Tom's features with a mixture of awe and foreboding. "My Lord, I had no idea—That is, I never knew then that you had already—that you had—"

Tom cut him off smoothly. "If I had wanted you to know, you would have known."

"Of course, My Lord. Forgive me."

The elder Malfoy looked properly humbled, although perhaps he looked a little hurt as well. Tom wondered if his position of prominence among his followers had carried over into their adult lives and beyond. Abraxas had been older, in fifth year when Tom was in first, and he had been the first person to recognize the potential of being close to the scrawny orphan who could speak Salazar's language. Malfoy had sought Tom out long before his fellow first years had learned the hard way that it was far better to be on his good side than his bad.

"You are not wrong to think now of my fellow Death Eaters' reactions, My Lord," Lucius offered, his voice carefully measured so as to give the least offense possible. "My father and his friends surely remember their school days with you, but they never speak of it. Before tonight I had never thought of you as—forgive me, My Lord—as someone who was once a normal boy."

"By which I am sure my son means only your outward persona, My Lord," Abraxas rushed to add. "You were never normal, average."

Lucius, who had apparently not considered that his words could be interpreted in quite that way, nodded along vigorously.

"Yes, quite so, My Lord; please forgive me if my words could have been taken as anything else." Tom waved him along impatiently, and he hastened to say, "I mean only that those of us who did not share childhoods with you know nothing about that time. Why, I had not even known your given name before tonight; I had only known your initials, from the diary."

Tom had learned more than he could have hoped to learn even if he had engineered the conversation himself.

_So I am not known by my given name—Abraxas was so quick to apologize for calling me "Tom" that I truly must not allow anyone to speak of it. _He curled his tongue up against the roof of his mouth as he thought. It was a tick that was undetectable from the outside, and he had long since trained himself to do that rather than to bite his lip or tilt his head. Unless, of course, he wanted someone to be aware that he was thinking about something, in which case he would tilt his head with impunity. _What could Lucius have meant about not having ever thought of me as normal? Can my appearance have changed so much?_

"And how do you think of me, Lucius?" he asked suddenly.

The man's eyes widened fractionally, although it was clear he was attempting to control his expression. "My Lord?"

"Only as your lord?" Tom asked, as if the man had been giving him an answer and not asking a question. "Not as Voldemort?"

"No, My Lord!" he cried. "I would never presume! I could never dare!"

Tom was more satisfied than he could have expressed.

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><p>In the early morning hours of the last day of May, Tom stretched luxuriously against the silky sheets in the Malfoys' best guest room. The room had been constructed to house King William III, as the portrait of Brutus Malfoy had been all too happy to inform him, when William and Mary had been expected to visit Brutus at the end of the seventeenth century. However, the Statute of Secrecy had passed in 1692, so, much to Brutus's chagrin, the expected visit had obviously never happened. So the room had been updated with the latest technologies and luxuries over the years, and Brutus's portrait was hung there in commemoration, but otherwise it was kept mostly the same as when originally built. Some sort of tradition, Tom supposed.<p>

Lucius had installed Tom in the room late the night before, after he had exhausted himself with research in the Malfoys' vast library. He had needed to learn about everything he had missed, as he had told his hosts. If the Malfoys assumed that he was only referring to the past ten years and not to the past fifty, then he was not about to correct them.

It felt indescribably good to lie in a real bed and rub himself against real sheets. And to eat real food and thumb through real books.

Tom never cried, neither from sadness nor happiness nor otherwise, but he imagined that if he were the type of person who did, he would have been a blubbering mess for the past twenty-four hours.

The thick carpet felt absolutely amazing between his toes when he finally got out of bed, and even the cool bathroom tiles beneath his bare feet seemed like an amazing luxury to him. He had no words to even begin to describe the hot water running through his hair and over his body. He did have a few words he could have used to describe the feel of slick soap and a firm hand against his member when he indulged himself in the shower, but he figured that the wordless noises he allowed to escape his throat were much more fitting for the situation than any flowery description he could have provided himself.

He had long since forgot what it felt like to actually experience his senses. Sight, smell, taste, hearing, _touch_—they had been all but lost to him in the diary, but now he planned to revel in them as much as possible.

His eyes landed on the ornate toilet as he was stepping out of the shower. And really, even the Malfoys' _toilets _were over the top? He rolled his eyes heavenward for a moment. Then it occurred to him that he had no need to make use of the facilities, nor had he the day before, even though he had veritably gorged himself with every food and drink his hosts had put in front of him. He might have forgotten exactly what having a body felt like, but he remembered the regular occurrence of certain bodily functions.

Researching the exact nature of his newfound body leapt up to number one on his to-do list, in front of finding someone to shag, learning all he could about what he had missed, figuring out what to do about his other self, and setting up some longer term goals for his new reign.

(He scolded himself and reluctantly moved finding someone to shag lower down the list, after learning all he could about what he had missed. He refused to move it any lower.)

Although neither of them had mentioned it the day before, it was clear that at least one of the Malfoys had taken note of the school uniform he was wearing and had taken it upon himself to procure Tom some more appropriate clothing. He gleefully burned his old clothes, not caring at all about the scorch mark he left on the expensive carpet. It took him a few minutes to get used to the slightly different cut and fit of his new modern clothes, but by the time he joined the Malfoys for breakfast he was moving just as elegantly as he ever had.

Three people rose from the table when he entered the room, and Lucius rushed to offer him the chair at the head of the table.

"My Lord, I hope you slept well. Here, sit down and allow the house-elves to serve you."

Tom mentally smiled at the man's over-solicitousness. It had been revealed the day before, after someone finally thought to ask why Lucius had been Apparating back to the Manor in such a furious state, that he had managed to get himself ousted from his position as a Hogwarts governor. Tom hadn't been truly angry—after all, he had never known that Malfoy was on the school board in the first place, and it wasn't like he had formed any plans around it—but he had thoroughly enjoyed acting like he was disappointed and watching the man metaphorically dangle uncomfortably over the fire.

He waited until they were all seated to respond. "I slept very well. Brutus Malfoy had the most interesting story to tell me about my room."

All three Malfoys immediately looked uncomfortable, and Tom delighted in pointing out their hypocrisy. Abraxas had always insisted that his family had never had any contact with Muggles, yet here Tom had found out that they had originally been granted land in England by William the Conqueror and that they had planned to house Muggle royalty in their home. He didn't truly mind their family history, of course, but he always took pleasure in twisting pure-bloods' beliefs to his own needs and for his own amusement.

Fortunately for the Malfoys—or perhaps unfortunately, as it would turn out—the arrival of their morning post saved any of them from having to respond.

Tom could see the headline of the _Daily Prophet_ as Abraxas picked it up.

THREE KILLED IN ATTACK AT HOGWARTS!

He blinked once in surprise. _Three_ dead?

"Give me that!" he demanded, but he had already Summoned it out of Abraxas's hands and into his own before the man had time to respond.

_Two Hogwarts students and one professor were killed in the early morning hours of May 30th. This is the culmination of a series of attacks at the school beginning last Halloween, although these are the first deaths. Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, who was somehow involved in the events, was moved last night from the school infirmary to Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, but the details of his involvement and of his condition have not been released. _

_Headmaster Dumbledore refuses to reveal any details of what took place at the school, but he assures this reporter that the monster has been destroyed. He says that the unfortunate deaths of Professor Gilderoy Lockhart and students Ronald and Ginevra Weasley, as well as the undisclosed injuries to Harry Potter, happened in the confrontation with the beast and that, while tragic, such an event cannot happen again._

Tom dropped the newspaper and slumped back against his chair in surprise. How had Potter survived? He had hit him with a Killing Curse at almost point-blank range!

Lucius, who had his own copy of the newspaper, addressed his father and wife. "Listen to this: 'This reporter is far from convinced by Dumbledore's reassurances; if he has nothing to hide and the monster really has been destroyed, then why has he not released the full details of the events? Indeed, I wonder at Headmaster Dumbledore's presence in the school on the night of these events after the Board of Governors had voted to remove him from his post due to his mishandling of the attacks earlier in the year. It seems that Dumbledore orchestrated to have himself reinstated as headmaster and for Lucius Malfoy, the concerned board member and parent of Draco Malfoy (second year), to be removed from his position as a school governor. Malfoy had pushed for Dumbledore's removal, citing safety concerns and Dumbledore's incompetent responses to the attacks.'"

Narcissa clapped her hands in delight. "My dear, if you put the right words in the right ears, you could easily have the entire school board ousted and yourself reinstated by the end of the day!"

While the Malfoys celebrated this small victory, Tom stared hard at his abandoned copy of the newspaper as if it might rise up from the table and give him the answers he sought.

_How had Potter survived_?

"My Lord?" he heard, and he looked up to find all three Malfoys watching him. He was sure it wasn't the first time Abraxas had called his name. "My Lord, what are you doing to do? What would you have us do?"

Tom really had no idea.

* * *

><p>Any vaguely recognizable Lockhart lines are modified from <em>Chamber of Secrets<em>, Chapter 17, "The Heir of Slytherin"; and Chapter 18, "Dobby's Reward."

Myrtle's line is modified from _Half-Blood Prince_, Chapter 24, "Sectumsempra."

Lucius's "slippery" attempt at taking credit is inspired by his lines in _Goblet of Fire_, Chapter 33, "The Death Eaters."

* * *

><p>The information about the Malfoy family history comes from <em>Pottermore<em>. According to this account, the first Malfoy on British soil was Armand Malfoy, who came over with William the Conqueror and was granted lands by him. After that the Malfoys maintained influence in the Muggle royal court for many centuries and built up their fortune by taking advantage of Muggles, and when the Statute of Secrecy was proposed in the late seventeenth century they were vehement opponents of it. However, after it passed they quickly adapted and soon were insisting that they had never interacted with Muggles at all.

Abraxas is Draco's grandfather's name in canon, as he mentions to Slughorn in HBP. We don't know that he was a Death Eater, but I find it likely that he was at least a supporter even if he wasn't Marked, given Lucius's deep involvement. I don't imagine that he would have allowed his son to join if he hadn't supported Voldemort.

* * *

><p>Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and followed! Please do let me know what you think and what you like, especially if you have favorite and followed. I always appreciate it!<p> 


	3. The Investigations

Tom leaned against the window frame and watched the sunrise through the floor-length window in his bedroom. He hadn't slept since the night before or eaten anything since dinner two days ago. After hearing the news about Potter, he had been too agitated to give it much thought. He had often gone without food or sleep when he was deep into research or some other obsession, so it wasn't exactly unusual.

What _was_ unusual was that he wasn't the least bit tired or hungry.

It was clear that he didn't have a human body, at least not exactly. Perhaps his body _was_ the Horcrux now, and not the diary? Maybe he had just switched containers?

But he _could_ eat and sleep and wank off and enjoy the contrast between the hot summer air and the cool stone against his skin. What he needed to know was if he _had to_ be subject to the normal human needs and weaknesses.

It was possible that his other self would have some idea what was going on, that he had gathered more information in his travels or in the actual practice of making Horcruxes. Tom only had the knowledge he'd gained up until the time he'd entered the diary and whatever he'd managed to learn in the Malfoy library since his return. It was most vexing to feel as if his brilliant mind had been wasted for fifty years, and he was indescribably jealous that his other self had apparently been able to go all the places and learn all the things that he had dreamed of while he was a student.

_Well_, he thought as he pushed himself away from the window and towards the bed where he had left Potter's wand, _there's only one way I'm going to learn anything about this_.

The first step, the most important litmus test to determine what sort of thing he was, would be to figure out if he could be injured through normal means. The diary, like all Horcruxes, was virtually indestructible (except, of course, if one happened to attack it with something just as Dark as it was, such as basilisk venom). His other self had never conducted any experiments on him that he was aware of, so this knowledge had always been theoretical rather than empirically tested. Until little Ginny Weasley's actions had proved it to him when the diary hadn't been damaged by the water she'd tossed him in.

However, Tom had no intention of trying to drown himself, not in a toilet or otherwise.

The dagger he conjured was plain but deathly sharp. It slipped into the skin of his wrist quite effortlessly, like gliding through water. Dark blood immediately poured from the wound.

_Is it even blood_? Tom wondered idly, his thoughts seeming almost detached from the situation. _Maybe it's the potion used in the Horcrux ritual_? _Or ink_.

He dragged the blade upwards towards the crook of his elbow. The pain made his hand slip so that the gash curved inwards instead of making a straight line. It was nothing to the pain of being made into a Horcrux, though, so he didn't allow that slight inconvenience to stop him. Skin and muscle and sinew separated right down to the bone, and when he was finished making the cut he stabbed downwards into the bone itself once for good measure before calmly setting the dagger on the bedside table next to him.

It was difficult to see through all of the blood (or whatever it was), but he was pretty sure that all of the anatomy looked to be in its proper place. It was quite fascinating to see one's own insides. He wondered why he'd never done it before.

Then before his very eyes the horrific gash began to heal. It didn't close up or reknit itself or anything else to suggest that he was just a magically fast healer. Rather it just… melted away, as if it had never existed to begin with. He was left with an arm as pristine as ever, except that it was drenched in thick, dark blood. He extended and contracted his elbow experimentally, then twisted his forearm so that it was facing upwards then downwards.

There was no pain or any other sign that he had been injured.

Over the next half an hour or so he concocted increasingly painful and injurious experiments to perform on himself, from burning a hole in his own chest to removing one of his little toes from his body. No matter what he did, whether the Muggle way or by magic, he came away in the end without a scratch on him.

Tom had the urge to write all of this down, as he had always done with the results of his experiments or any other new knowledge he had gained. However, this particular field of knowledge was better left only in his own brain, and perhaps that of his other self. Even if he put the very best protections he knew how on his notes, then locked them in a safe box with another layer of the very best protections, then threw the whole thing into the middle of the Arctic Ocean, he still wouldn't feel secure having such information about himself written down.

A knock came at the door. "My Lord?"

"Come," Tom had replied before he'd really thought about it.

He realized his mistake as soon as Lucius froze in the doorway, wide eyes taking in his form. The man had called his name in shock and rushed across the room before Tom had time to reassure him.

"My Lord, what is this? What's happened?"

Lucius had seized his blood-covered forearm and was holding it closer to his face to inspect it. No doubt he was looking for the injury that must be the source of the all the blood that was splattered across Tom's body and his bedroom.

"Let go, Malfoy," Tom ordered, although it came out much calmer than he was sure Lord Voldemort would have been under the same circumstances.

The man dropped Tom's arm as if it had burned him.

"Forgive me, My Lord! I meant no disrespect! I was thinking only of your safety!"

"I know," Tom replied in his eerily calm voice, "and that's why I haven't removed your hand from your body."

The truth was that he relished the physical contact, and it was only the knowledge that Lord Voldemort would have never allowed his followers to touch him without permission that had kept him from allowing Malfoy to paw at him to his little blond heart's content. It seemed that he was quite a bit more tactile—that he enjoyed human contact a lot more—now than before he'd gone into the diary, which was really no surprise, given the complete absence of physical sensation for the past fifty years. Perhaps if Lucius had shown any sexual interest in him…

But no, he hadn't noticed any indication that the man would be a willing partner in that. Unfortunately.

He stepped around Malfoy, who leapt out of the way so quickly that he almost tripped backwards, and made his way to the bed, where he had dropped Potter's wand sometime during his experiments. It was only a moment's work to put his appearance to rights. He would leave the bedroom for the house-elves.

"Why are you here?" he asked the other wizard.

Lucius looked as if he desperately wanted to ask what Tom had been doing and whose blood was still all over the room, but instead he schooled his voice into an impressively level tone, given the circumstances, and explained, "I came to see if you would like breakfast, My Lord—you must be hungry!—and to tell you that I will be meeting with the Minister this morning to see about my position on the school board."

Tom had no intention of eating breakfast. Sure he desperately missed food, and as early as twenty-four hours ago no one could have suggested to him that he should willingly give it up. However, he was determined now to see if he could go inhuman amounts of time without food or sleep.

"I'm not hungry. I expect you to return with information about Harry Potter."

* * *

><p>Lucius had been reinstated to the school board, just as his wife had predicted. They had all been amused by the article in the <em>Daily Prophet<em> proclaiming him the victim of a scheming old man who had used his influence to get rid of his opposition and reclaim his position. The public perhaps would not have been so critical of Dumbledore regaining his position as headmaster if there hadn't been three deaths and one injured Savior on his watch, all of which seemed to reinforce the idea that Malfoy had been right about Dumbledore's inability to handle the situation.

As for the accusations that Lucius had threatened to curse the families of the other members of the board in order to get them to remove Dumbledore in the first place, they were considered nothing more than a baseless attempt by Dumbledore's supporters to cover their own tracks and to continue defaming the man who had called for their idol's removal.

It seemed that Tom's victory that night in the Chamber had more far-reaching effects than even he could have imagined.

Still, the Ministry was reluctant to remove Dumbledore now that he was reinstated. Lucius had succeeded in having the rest of the supposedly dirty board removed and had installed some of Tom's supporters in their places, but he couldn't select _all_ of the new members. The other board members and Minister Fudge were convinced that it would be political suicide to remove Dumbledore at this juncture. Lucius's hands were tied until Dumbledore screwed up again.

Most frustratingly, Lucius had been unable to dig up any useful information about Harry Potter or the Chamber incident. It wasn't really his fault, as Dumbledore was keeping the boy strictly isolated in a private room at Saint Mungo's and had insisted that they had to wait until he was released from the hospital to speak to him.

Still, Tom had been most displeased, and Lucius had been the most convenient target for his ire.

When Lucius strolled into the library a couple of weeks later, in mid-June, Tom's hopes were renewed. He did not have the look about him of someone who knew that he was about to be held under the Cruciatus Curse. Tom hoped that meant he actually had something useful to say this time around.

"My Lord," Lucius began, quickly bowing in Tom's direction by why of greeting, "Potter has finally been released from Saint Mungo's. Dumbledore tried to keep it quiet, and if not for Fudge's interference I am sure that I would not have known about the interview until after the fact." Here he allowed himself a brief chuckle. "The look on Dumbledore's face when he saw me standing there will be etched into my mind forever."

Tom perked up, sitting up straight in his seat and pushing away the heavy tome he'd previously been hunched over. He gestured for Malfoy to sit.

"And?"

Lucius gracefully lowered himself into a large wingback chair directly across from Tom's.

"I was able to cast doubt on both his story and, I am happy to say, his mental faculties. I accused him and Dumbledore of having concocted the whole story about the Chamber of Secrets in order to cover up Dumbledore's incompetence."

The Malfoys had a large Pensieve, which was quickly sent for. Tom was momentarily uncomfortable at the thought of leaving himself exposed and vulnerable while he was inside the Pensieve, but then he remembered his own virtual invincibility and, with a cold laugh that seemed to unnerve Lucius, pressed his face into the swirling liquid.

He landed in the entrance hall at Hogwarts, right in front of the grand staircase. He was standing right next to Lucius, who was conversing quietly with two other men. At the sight of one of the men he experienced the same sense of surprise he'd felt when he'd first seen Abraxas looking so old. It had to be Richard Mulciber, only fifty years older.

The other man he recognized only because he had seen the man's picture in the newspaper. Cornelius Fudge was standing directly on Lucius's other side, wearing a pinstripe suit and holding a lime green bowler hat in one hand.

The group stood assembled when Dumbledore exited the Great Hall with Harry Potter a step behind him. The look on his face when he saw them was, as Lucius had said, quite priceless.

"Cornelius," he said, not exactly politely, "I wasn't aware that we would have an audience. Surely you understand that Harry isn't strong enough for an interrogation?"

"An audience, Albus?" Lucius answered before the Minister could speak. "Surely you do not suggest that representatives from the Board of Governors do not have a right to be present for this inquiry?"

Mulciber spoke up in agreement. "Quite right, Mr. Chairman. The members of the school board think only of the safety of the students, and I'm sure that Minister Fudge would never suggest that he or any other Ministry official be allowed to questions a Hogwarts student without board oversight."

Fudge looked rather more confused than not, but he nodded in agreement anyway. "Yes, yes, of course!"

Dumbledore could not but agree, although he did not look pleased. "Very well. I had planned to conduct this interview in my office."

With that, he led the group through the castle and up the staircase behind the statute, where Harry immediately dropped into a maroon armchair. Indeed, the boy had looked to be swaying a bit on his feet, and Tom studied him with curiosity tinged with hate.

He wished that he weren't inside a memory, so he could try the Killing Curse again. Next time he'd shove his wand right up Potter's nose and cast it twice, just to make sure it took.

Potter had barely got settled into his chair before Fudge said, "Now then, Harry my boy, why don't you tell us what happened?"

"It was Voldemort," he stated immediately. Everyone in the room except Dumbledore reacted immediately. There were shouts and shivers all around, and Tom watched Lucius grip the handle of his cane so tight that his knuckles went white.

"Preposterous!" cried Fudge. "You-Know-Who has been dead for over ten years!"

Dumbledore's blue eyes were grave. "As I have told you, Cornelius, he is not dead. He has merely been beaten back, not defeated, and it seems that now he has returned."

Fudge spluttered in indignation.

Lucius sniffed in disdain and demanded, "You expect us to believe that You-Know-Who himself has been hiding out undetected in the school all year, petrifying students and cats?"

"No!" cried Harry. "It was Tom Riddle's diary! He had—!"

Mulciber, although he was clearly startled at the mention of that name, had picked up on Lucius's game by then. He cut off the Boy-Who-Lived with a dramatic flourish of his hand. "I thought you said it was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! Now you say it was Tom Riddle!"

"You know as well as I do, Richard, that Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort are one and the same."

Dumbledore's eyes seemed to bore into the man, and Tom assumed that it was only decades of experience under Lord Voldemort's gaze that allowed him to hold firm under the scrutiny.

"I know no such thing!" he declared hotly. "You always hated Tom, and you've been accusing him of this since he discovered the culprit fifty years ago! You didn't have any evidence then and you don't now!"

Harry sat forward in his seat, as if he wanted to leap to his feet but hadn't the strength to manage it. "We do have evidence! I saw him! He tried to kill me, and he did kill Ginny and Ron!"

There was a minor uproar, and in between the people trying to be heard over each other and Fudge's exclamation of "Who is this Tom Riddle? Somebody tell me who this Riddle is!" Lucius cracked his cane loudly against the stone floor.

When he had everybody's attention, he sneered at Potter and asked again, "And this Tom Riddle has been in the school all year?"

"It was his diary! He had possessed Ginny; she'd been writing to him all along!"

Tom saw Mulciber stiffen and knew that he had some idea now what had happened. It wasn't exactly surprising, he supposed, given that he was one of Tom's first followers and had undoubtedly been there to witness nearly everything.

"Preposterous!" Fudge repeated. "I've never heard of any diary do any such thing!"

Both Potter and Dumbledore opened their mouths to speak, but Lucius beat them to it. "Now, Minister, I'm sure that we can easily clear up this mystery. Just give us the diary, headmaster, and we can verify these claims for ourselves."

Tom smirked at Malfoy's cunning. He had known that there had to be a reason Voldemort had given the man his favor and trusted him with possession of a Horcrux.

Dumbledore frowned. "Unfortunately, we do not have the diary—"

"Because Riddle took it with him when he left!" cut in Potter.

Lucius looked for all the world as if he was terribly concerned and confused, although Tom knew that he had to be immensely enjoying himself. "I thought you said that Riddle possessed Miss Weasley through the diary? How is it that a diary could carry itself away?"

Harry looked enraged now, and his voice was anything but calm when he tried to explain. "He said that he had stolen her soul to escape from the diary, to make himself a body. That's how she died."

Mulciber was staring hard between Potter and Malfoy now, an expression of mingled shock and hope on his face. It seemed that Tom would have to solidify his plans for Voldemort's followers sooner rather than later.

"I see," said Lucius, although disbelief was evident in his tone. "Even if this is true, it does not explain what kind of monster perpetrated the attacks, or why neither Headmaster Dumbledore nor any of the professors were able to find and stop it. How did it come about that it was you, Mr. Potter, who finally faced this monster?"

The headmaster looked rather more guilty than embarrassed, in Tom's opinion. He wondered how much Dumbledore had actually known, because he certainly didn't believe for one second that, with fifty years to think about it, a man as smart as the headmaster hadn't been able to figure out exactly what the monster was. And that would certainly explain why his bird had shown up at the opportune moment….

But why had he allowed things to continue, if he had known? Why had he allowed Potter to come to the Chamber?

Tom had lost the train of the conversation while lost in his own musings, but he was brought back to the present when Potter rose from his chair.

"I'm not making it up! I can prove it! I'll show you the Chamber and you can see the basilisk's corpse for yourself!"

Tom looked at Lucius, who seemed rather alarmed at the suggestion. He assumed that nothing bad had come of it, though, or else Malfoy wouldn't have been quite so happy when he'd returned to the manor, so he followed along behind the group without any particular anxiety about the outcome of this little adventure.

When they reached the second floor bathroom, Potter strolled right up to the sink and said, "Open."

Everyone watched in silence, but nothing happened.

"Open," Potter tried again, but again nothing happened. He screwed his eyes shut. "Open!"

Fudge chortled. "I say, Harry, this has all been a fine joke, but—"

"No! I can do it!" Potter cried. "It's just difficult to speak Parseltongue unless I'm actually talking to a snake!"

Mulciber huffed in exasperation. "Come now, I think we've heard enough! The story is nothing short of fantastical, and neither Mr. Potter nor the headmaster has been able to provide even a shred of evidence for any of it!"

"I am afraid that I have to agree," said Lucius. "It seems that nobody here is interested in telling us the truth."

Dumbledore stared at him seriously. "Now, Lucius, you know that's not true."

Potter, who had been looking at the group with disgust, finally exploded. "YOU KNOW THE TRUTH, MALFOY! YOU'RE THE ONE WHO GAVE RIDDLE'S DIARY TO GINNY!"

Lucius's eyes glittered malevolently as he allowed his gaze to take the measure of the boy. Mulciber was looking between the two of them with the same expression as before.

"Mr. Potter!" exclaimed Fudge. "You cannot just go around making baseless, disrespectful accusations about upstanding members of society like Mr. Malfoy!"

"Now, now, Cornelius," Lucius's smooth voice broke in, though his icy gray eyes were still boring into Potter's green, "I think that it's quite clear Mr. Potter has been coached to say these things."

Potter and Dumbledore both protested, but it was too late. Fudge had taken hold of the suggestion and clearly had every intention of running with it and never letting it go.

"Yes…" he mused. Tom could almost physically see the thoughts as they took form in his mind. "Yes, Lucius, Mr. Potter has clearly been dragged into this in an effort to protect Dumbledore…."

Potter spluttered in indignation, and Dumbledore began, "Now wait just a moment, Cornelius—" but the Minister would hear none of it. Lucius smiled victoriously in Potter's direction as he turned to follow the Minister out of the bathroom.

Tom pulled out of the memory with a smirk on his face. Lucius was watching him with a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Are you pleased, My Lord?"

Tom acknowledged his pleasure with a nod, careful not to allow too much emotion to show in front of his follower. "There is no chance that they will use truth serum or perhaps a Pensieve to learn the truth?"

"No, My Lord. I suggested to Fudge that a wizard as powerful as Dumbledore, given the weeks he has had alone with Potter, could certainly have implanted false memories that would fool any measure we could come up with to test him."

Although obviously Dumbledore had done no such thing, Tom knew that it was an entirely plausible excuse. He himself had done it before, when he had framed his uncle for the murder of his father and grandparents, and he'd only had a couple of hours and about a hundred years less experience than Dumbledore.

"Will Dumbledore be removed?"

The smile slid off of Malfoy's face. "I'm afraid not, My Lord. Fudge is quite convinced, but this information is not public."

_And therefore it would be politically unpopular to remove him_, Tom's thoughts supplied the rest.

He sincerely hated Dumbledore, he really did. The man had always been a thorn in his side, and now after so long his influence and the cult of personality that had grown up around him were major hindrances.

"But My Lord, the good far outweighs the bad," Lucius's voice broke into his thoughts. "I'm sure that something will happen soon enough that will allow us to oust Dumbledore, and Fudge is convinced that Potter is either mentally incompetent or simply a tool for the headmaster."

Tom nodded. "Yes, Malfoy, overall this is a victory. You have done well…. But leave me to my thoughts now; you have left me a lot to consider."

* * *

><p>A little more than a week later, on June 19th, Tom was reading quietly in the library. He had long since finished reading the most reliable history books at hand, and there wasn't much else he could learn on that front unless he actually got a follower—or Lord Voldemort himself—to fill in the blanks. Now he was studying magical textbooks, refreshing his memory of things he had learned long ago but hadn't had an opportunity to practice in five long decades.<p>

Next he would move onto more advanced areas. He had a lot of catching up to do if he wanted even a small part of the knowledge he was sure his other self had gathered over forty years of travel and practice, before he'd been defeated.

He was enjoying a thoroughly depraved guide to Memory Charms when his solitude was interrupted. The Malfoys knew not to interrupt him in the library unless the need was dire or the information more interesting than whatever he might be reading, so he looked up expecting to receive important news from Abraxas or Lucius. Instead he watched a smallish, shockingly blond boy cross the room to one of the corner bookcases.

This must be Lucius's son, Tom knew. In fact, he looked like a replica of Lucius done in miniature.

Draco carefully transferred several books from the bag he was carrying onto the shelf. Tom stayed silent and kept his seat as he watched these proceedings; the best time to observe a person, after all, was when he didn't know you were watching him. Draco handled the books with love, placing them most carefully into place, and before he turned away from the shelf he ran his hand reverently over the volumes that had already been there.

Then he turned and caught sight of Tom, and he froze for a second before his expression morphed into a haughty mask.

"Who're you?" he asked as he sauntered over to the group of chairs where Tom was sitting. "I'm Draco. Draco Malfoy. Are you here with your father? Father told me he has an important guest, but of course all of the guests are important or they wouldn't be allowed to stay here."

Tom raised his eyebrows in amusement. "No, I'm not here with my father."

Draco dropped himself into the chair across from his.

"Really? How old are you?"

"Sixty-six," Tom answered honestly.

The youngest Malfoy glared at him in annoyance. "If you don't want to answer, you just had to say so."

There was a gasp, and they both turned to see Abraxas standing in the doorway watching them with wide eyes.

"Draco!" He rushed to where they were seated, his robes swishing around his legs when he came to a halt. He bowed low in Tom's direction "My Lord, please forgive my grandson's impertinence. He had no idea who you are; he had not been told yet of your return…."

There was complete silence for several heartbeats as they both looked at the older man, then Draco turned to stare at Tom with wide, frightened eyes. Tom could practically see the pulse point in his neck fluttering wildly. He seemed frozen in place until his grandfather's hand on his shoulder propelled him forward. Then he fell to his knees in front of Tom's chair.

"Please, My Lord, if I had known… I…"

He seemed to be at a loss for words.

Tom considered punishing him, or at least letting him sweat it out for a while longer. However, he wasn't actually angry or insulted—after all, he really ought to get used to such reactions, given that he _did_ look like a sixteen year old and not at all like a Dark Lord. There would be plenty of opportunities to punish people for making that mistake in the future, he was sure, but he doubted anything good would come of torturing his hosts' only child.

Still, there could be no harm in scaring him just _a_ _little_….

He reached out and allowed the long fingers of one hand to curl over Draco's soft hair. The boy trembled under the touch, and his grandfather looked as if he wanted nothing more than to reach out and snatch the boy out of his master's grasp. Of course he wouldn't dare. Tom tilted Draco's head back until he met the swimming gray eyes and allowed his hand to travel down until his fingers were half wrapped around Draco's throat. He could feel the elevated pulse and the convulsive swallows, and he allowed a smile to play across his lips.

"Leave us, child," Tom ordered as he let go and sank back into his chair. He was secretly amused at calling someone a child given his own appearance and the fact that he still felt sixteen rather than sixty-six, but he didn't allow his amusement to show in his expression.

Draco stumbled to his feet and headed unsteadily for the door. He glanced back over his shoulder and, instead of looking at Abraxas as Tom would have expected, he looked right at Tom. As soon as their eyes met, Draco's widened and he looked away, rushing the rest of the way out of the library.

Tom fought the urge to smile. He hadn't been so amused in quite a long time.

He turned to his oldest follower, twirling Potter's wand around his fingers. "Now, Abraxas, you and I need to have a little chat about this oversight."


	4. Thin Air

**Author's Note:** I'm not sure I'll be able to keep up this pace as exam season looms, but I'm currently inspired.

I appreciate all the people who have favorited and followed this story; it means you must like it! Thanks also to my guest reviewer, whom I can't reply to privately, and thanks again to those registered users who reviewed.

There are various explanatory notes at the end.

* * *

><p>"Show me your Mark."<p>

Lucius startled, his blond head whipping up to catch sight of Tom standing in the doorway to his study.

"My Lord?" he asked, but he began rolling up his sleeve all the same.

Tom had been taking a risk; he'd really had no idea whether his other self had actually gone through with Marking his followers. It had just been the beginning of an idea before Tom had been put into the diary. If Lucius had ended up having no idea what he was talking about, he would have had to Obliviate him.

He might still have to Obliviate him, actually, if he became too suspicious.

"It occurs to me that I have not investigated the effects my resurrection has had on this," he said by way of explanation as he took Lucius's outstretched arm into his hands. The truth was that he needed to investigate the nature of the Mark in the first place so that he could use it. He had started planning how to bring some of his other followers back into the fold, but he could not do that until he understood how their Marks worked. If he could not even utilize the very brand he'd placed on them, it would be a dead giveaway that he wasn't really Lord Voldemort.

Lucius winced uncomfortably when Tom prodded at the brand with his finger. "It is still faded, My Lord. I had thought that it must be an effect of you having obtained a new body rather than the one that originally created the Mark."

"Hmm…" Tom mused, only half paying attention to what the other man was saying. "Yes, probably."

This wasn't the Mark he had envisioned for his followers. Then again, he had never planned for his group to be called the Death Eaters either. The skull and serpent was eminently suitable for a group called the Death Eaters, he had to admit, but he rather doubted that he would have branded the Knights of Walpurgis with any such thing.

He sighed. _I will have to find a way to examine Abraxas's Mark_.

Still, he had more information now than he had before: He knew without a doubt, after having examined it, that it was a variant on the Protean Charm. He had not worked out exactly how to modify the charm to suit his purposes before he'd been sent into the diary, but at least now he knew that his other self had kept that idea instead of finding something else entirely. It was a place to start.

There was a knock on the door then, and he dropped Lucius's arm to face that direction.

"Father?"

Lucius paused in rolling his sleeve back down, shooting a vaguely horrified glance between Tom and the heavy oak panels. "I can tell him to come back later, My Lord. No doubt he just wants to ask me for some toy or another."

Tom smiled coldly and pointedly took a seat in one of the comfortable chairs in front of Lucius's desk. "No, Lucius, invite him in. I need to speak with him."

There was no arguing with such an edict, but Tom knew that Lucius desperately wanted to disobey him. He had not made a move to harm a hair on the Draco's head in the days since their rather unorthodox introduction, but all three of the older Malfoys had been quite on edge, as if he might change his mind at any moment and strike the boy down where he stood. No doubt he hadn't put them at ease by torturing Abraxas and Lucius for failing to have informed Draco immediately of his identity. He had enjoyed Draco and been thoroughly amused by him, but he had just needed to _torture something _and had found the boy's actions to be the perfect excuse to Cruciate his sires. He would have used any excuse at that point, and he didn't regret having done it.

Draco himself was still terrified to be around him, which was apparent from the way he trembled when he noticed Tom in his father's study. He bowed immediately, if stiffly, and murmured, "My Lord."

Lucius had come around his desk to stand protectively behind his son, for whatever good that would do, and seeing them together struck Tom anew with how close the resemblance was between them. When he had gone to kill his own father fifty years ago, it had been like looking through time at what he would look like in twenty or thirty years—well, more like in fifty or sixty years, given that wizards aged slower than Muggles. He had wondered then what it would have been like if the man had taken responsibility for him as he ought to have done, instead of abandoning his pregnant wife and unborn child.

The younger Malfoy always looked up at his father with undisguised love and a bit of worship shining in his eyes, and Lucius looked scarcely any more dignified when he looked down at his son.

Tom supposed that Draco Malfoy would never murder his own father.

Mentally shaking himself from those thoughts, Tom gestured towards the chair nearest his. "Come, Draco, sit by me."

Draco was obviously nervous at such a request, but to his credit he didn't look to his father for support before he did as he was told. Once he was settled, Tom offered him a kind look, one that appeared genuine.

"You are very important to my plans, Draco," he said softly, being as unintimidating as he could manage. "No one else has the information you do. I need you to tell me everything you know about Harry Potter."

"P—Potter?" Draco asked uncertainly. Then his eyes widened and he quickly added, "My Lord."

Tom honestly did not have much patience for this sort of thing. He had hated children even when he was a child himself, and that opinion had certainly not improved as he grew older. However, his observations over the past several days had shown him that, no matter what Draco's father thought, there was more of Narcissa than Lucius in the boy's personality, even if his appearance was every bit his father. Unlike Abraxas and Lucius, Draco was sensitive and appeared to have no taste for true violence. He would not respond well to being treated harshly, but Tom suspected that if he handled the boy with a soft hand then he would be able to coax just as much loyalty from him as from either of the older Malfoys. And soldiers were not the only followers Lord Voldemort would need.

So he leaned back casually in his chair and consciously softened the usually harsh lines of face. "Yes. I need to know his strengths and weaknesses: who his friends are, which subjects he does well in and which poorly, which professors are his favorite. That sort of thing."

Draco blinked up at him through long, pale lashes, seemingly still unsure about this turn of events. Tom supposed the boy might just think it was some sort of trap and that he was going to be Cruciated as soon as he said the wrong thing.

Then he released his lower lip from between his teeth and said, "He—he is treated favorably by the headmaster, My Lord, and by his head of house, Professor McGonagall. In first year he should have been expelled because he was caught on his broomstick after Madam Hooch had told us not to fly until she came back, but when McGonagall saw him she gave him a place on the Quidditch team—as a first year!—instead of expelling him or even taking points."

Tom raised his eyebrows. Potter must be extremely talented on a broom. "And Dumbledore?"

Here Draco scowled in clear irritation. "At the end of first year everybody knew that Potter and his friends had to have broken at least a hundred school rules, the rumors were so incredible—something about a Cerberus and the Sorcerer's Stone. But then, at the end of year feast after Slytherin had already won the House Cup and the whole Great Hall was decorated in our colors, Dumbledore awarded them all fifty points each and took them from dead last all the way to first! Right there in the middle of the feast, after we had won fair and square!"

He had never cared for such things himself, but Tom well understood the motivation that the little House Cup competition provided for most students. He had even played along and done more than his share of helping Slytherin win, although it had been done in service of his being recognized for his brilliance and talent and not actually as a quest to earn house points.

"Oh!" Draco exclaimed, the color in his cheeks rising even more. "Hagrid, the nasty half-breed groundskeeper, seems to have a soft spot for Potter. I know that Potter helped him hide a baby dragon last year, and _I_ got detention from McGonagall for reporting it!"

Tom actually laughed at that, just a single chuckle that escaped his mouth before he could check himself.

"A baby dragon? Well, I suppose I am not surprised that Hagrid still has a penchant for dangerous creatures that he has no business keeping as pets."

Draco and Lucius were both staring at him now, and he realized that he had been mistaken to say that aloud. He wondered if he would ever get used to putting his thoughts through the The Lord Voldemort They Know Would Never Say That filter he had been attempting to construct in his mind.

"The acromantula, My Lord?" Lucius asked finally.

Tom realized that of course it made perfect sense for Lucius to have already known, since he was the chairman of the school board during the most recent Chamber incident. Surely Hagrid would have been the first suspect, since he had been expelled as the culprit fifty years ago.

He ignored the question and turned back to Draco. "And his friends?"

"He's friendly enough with all of his housemates, but he's only close to Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, sir," he was quick to reply. "Did you kill the Weasel? Only I couldn't think how Potter could have gotten into the Chamber if he _wasn't_ the Heir of Slytherin, and he did speak Parseltongue. I thought—I mean, until I learned of your return, My Lord—I thought that maybe Potter really had run mad and done it all himself, and Dumbledore was just covering for him."

If he hadn't had so much practice controlling his reactions, Tom might have reared back in genuine surprise. There was so much information to shift through there, but he settled for asking, "Potter really could speak it then?"

"Oh, yes, My Lord. He spoke it right there in front of everybody when I was paired with him in Dueling Club."

Draco seemed like he would say more, no doubt to regale Tom with a heavily edited version of the duel that made him look the best, but Tom held up his hand to forestall it. He had a lot to think about—_Why had Potter lost the ability to speak it, or had he been telling the truth in the bathroom and merely had difficulty unless he had a real snake to talk to_?—but there were more pressing matters to attend to at the moment.

"Tell me about this Granger, then. A Mudblood?"

Lucius cleared his throat and Draco looked extremely uncomfortable.

"Yes, My Lord. She's very smart, though, at least with books. I'm sure she's the brains behind everything Potter's done; Potter and Weasley can't even manage to catch the Hogwarts Express on time."

He guessed from their reactions that this girl must be smart enough to have challenged Draco academically, which he knew Lucius would not be happy about.

"Potter is close to his friends?"

"Yes, My Lord. He's always with them. They do everything together, as far as I can tell, including whatever stunts Potter pulls. He wasn't himself at all when he came back from the hospital."

Well, at least there was some good news! The Malfoys had shrunk back from him as much as they could without moving, and Tom realized that he had started twirling Potter's wand between his fingers without thinking about it. He often did that when he was thinking of something particularly violent. Although in this case it wasn't aimed at the Malfoys, they obviously had no way of knowing that.

He smiled and kept twirling the wand, which did very little to alleviate his hosts' fears. "Tell me, Draco, do you think Potter would be just as affected by the loss of his Mudblood as he was by the loss of Weasley?"

Draco blinked at him several times in surprise. "I—I suppose so, My Lord. He spent every second with her after he came back to school."

Tom rose suddenly from his chair, causing Draco to scramble up after him to copy his father's bow. He reached out and ran the tips of his fingers along the boy's cheek as he passed by them on his way out the door, enjoying the shudder it drew. "You have done very well, Draco."

* * *

><p>It turned out that it was a bit more difficult to track down a Mudblood than Tom had originally thought. Abraxas had been a bit surprised by his anger over the time it was taking him to complete the task.<p>

"My Lord," he had placated, spreading his hands in front of himself to show his submission, "you know that these things take finesse to accomplish, and, as a result, a certain amount of time. It would be easier if we could use Lucius, but of course we can't blow his—"

Tom had snarled at him quite viciously, and he had abruptly stopped talking. Perhaps his other self had known that, but _he_ hadn't known any such thing. Every time he found something else he didn't know that he should have, he got more and more angry.

"I don't care whose arse you have to lick, Malfoy! I want the information by the end of the week!"

Whether Malfoy really had put himself out to get the information sooner or whether he would have had the information by the end of the week anyway, Tom had no idea. But he had the information in hand that Friday afternoon, so he was quite content either way.

The next obstacle had come when Lucius had become quite horrified at Tom's plan to carry out the kidnapping himself.

"But, My Lord, surely you should not lower yourself to this!"

Tom might have been amused by this earlier, but by that point he had been quite annoyed with the whole exercise. "Who will do it in my place, Malfoy? _You_? You would stand out in a Muggle neighborhood as much as a troll would, even if you changed your appearance."

And really, the icing on the cake had been that clearly Lucius had wanted to ask quite a lot of questions about why Tom himself would have more success blending into a Muggle neighborhood.

"Tell me, Malfoy," Tom had said by way of diversion, "have you any idea how to mask your magic so that the Ministry does not immediately know that magic has been performed in the vicinity of the Mudblood?"

"I—No, My Lord."

Tom let his wand out to twirl around his fingers. "And are you confident in your ability to either escape or, upon capture, talk your way out of it if Dumbledore or the Ministry is having the house watched as a precaution?"

"No, My Lord." Lucius had looked quite put out to have to admit that.

Tom had held him under the Cruciatus Curse for longer than was strictly necessary for the offense of questioning his lord's plans.

And so on Saturday nearly two weeks after he had learned of the girl from Draco, Tom found himself standing on her street. It was in an affluent London suburb, the kind of place where Tom had always imagined that he would someday live, before he'd discovered that he was a wizard. A church dominated the center of the neighborhood, and four streets spread out around it like a cross. He selected the street directly in front of the church door and set off down it at a casual pace, smiling and nodding to the residents who took note of him. He looked like he belonged there, he knew, and aside from the neighbors not recognizing him as a resident he should have no trouble. He would probably be thought of as the school friend of one of the neighborhood kids.

The Grangers had their name on their mailbox, so Tom had no trouble at all finding the house. It was a typical middle-class home, two stories and an attic made of brown brick with large white windows. The front garden was planted heavily with trees and shrubs of all sorts so that only the narrow stone walkway up to the door was clear. Tom kept up his leisurely pace as he made his way up the walk and rang the bell.

The door was opened by a rather tall woman with dark hair pulled back into a loose bun. She seemed quite bemused by the strange boy standing on her stoop clutching a book to his front with anxious fingers. "Can I help you, dear?"

"Mrs. Granger?" asked Tom in a soft, nervous voice. At her affirmation, he went on, "I'm Dean; I go to Hog—erm, to school with Hermione. I was hoping to visit her, you see. But only if she isn't busy—and also you aren't busy, I mean! I wouldn't want to—to intrude."

The woman looked as if she had to resist the urge to coo at him and pat his cheek, which was just what Tom had hoped. "Is Hermione expecting you, dear?"

"No. I rather wanted it to be a surprise to cheer her up. She had such a hard year last year, and I know that she was so—so _upset_ by what happened to—well, you know…." He trailed off uncomfortably, and Mrs. Granger's eyes darkened and crinkled in understanding. "Only I know—that is, I've noticed—that she loves to read, and I thought that she might enjoy this book"—here he indicated the book that he had deliberately been keeping in a white-knuckled grip—"and that maybe she wouldn't mind if I visited her instead of just owling it."

"Oh, of course. That's so thoughtful!" Mrs. Granger moved aside to allow Tom into the house. "Where are you from, dear? Do your parents expect you home for dinner?"

Tom crossed the threshold triumphantly, but he maintained his pathetically nervous façade. "I haven't any parents; I live in an orphanage in Lambeth."

She looked at once pitying and uncomfortable, as Tom had known she would. All adults reacted the exact same way to hearing of his childhood circumstances. On the other hand, in his experience all children reacted with either curiosity or ridicule, but never kindness.

"Oh dear! Well, you shall certainly have to stay for dinner, if you've come all this way. Here, you go wait in the sitting room and I'll call Hermione downstairs."

Tom found himself deposited into a room where another man was already occupying the only sofa. He was watching the television, and Tom had never seen one as large or colorful as that. In fact, he had only ever seen the large boxes with small, black-and-white screens that were displayed in some of the most expensive Muggle stores in London during his childhood. It was really fascinating that the technology had come so far, and he wondered what else was different about the Muggle world so many years later…. But he had work to do, so he shoved the thought aside for later consideration.

Mr. Granger didn't seem particularly pleased that a young man had come to his house looking for his daughter. They exchanged only the most cursory of greetings under Mrs. Granger's watchful eye, but then they sat in silence when she left to call up the stairs for Hermione. It was only after the girl could be heard coming down the stairs that the man ventured to speak.

"So, do you have an, erm… _interest_ in our Hermione?"

Tom looked away from the television to meet the man's gaze and allowed a cold, high laugh. "An interest? You could say that."

Mr. Granger's face had colored and he looked as if he was about to speak when his daughter stepped through the door and gasped loud enough to draw everyone's attention. She staggered backwards right into her mother, who was a couple of steps behind her.

"Hermione, dear, whatever is the matter?"

But Hermione paid her mother no mind. She was staring wide-eyed at their guest and had begun frantically patting at her pockets. "You!"

"Yes, me," Tom agreed, rising from his armchair with a grace that belied the nervous suitor act he'd been performing before. "I should have known that you would have managed to find a picture of me somewhere in the Hogwarts library."

"Hermione…?" her mother tried again, even as her father exclaimed, "What is going on here?"

She put her arms out and tried to herd her mother backwards out of the room. "It's him! Voldemort—the man who killed Ron and Ginny!"

There was a general explosion of chaos at that point, with Mrs. Granger screaming and trying to switch positions with her daughter, who was having none of it, and Mr. Granger rising from the couch with a great shout to rush towards Tom. The man was soon face-first on the floor, and Tom trained his wand steadily at the women.

"Tsk, tsk, little Mudblood. No wand? A true witch would never be caught without it."

Hermione stood defiant next to her mother, who had frozen and was staring unblinking at her husband's unmoving form. "I wouldn't have been able to fight _you_ even if I'd had my wand."

Tom laughed again, the sound causing Mrs. Granger to flinch. "True enough, but it's the principle of the thing, you understand…. Now, you can come quietly or not."

With a great flurry of movement, Hermione shoved her mother towards the door once more, but the cry for the woman to run had hardly left her mouth before her mother had dropped to the floor, screaming in agony.

"That will be 'not,' then? I admit that I had hoped you would say that; it's much more fun this way."

Hermione had knelt down next to her mother, but there was of course nothing she could do to help the effects of the Cruciatus Curse. She only received a hard knock across the face from one of the woman's flailing arms, which knocked her backwards onto her ass. She glared up at Tom through a mass of wild curls, sprawled out on the floor in front of him like an offering.

"What do you want?"

He smirked. "You. Did I not make that clear?"

Mrs. Granger continued to scream and thrash.

"I'll go!" Hermione cried. She was watching her mother with wide, teary eyes. She had snot trailing down her face from her crying, and blood from where her mother's arm had split her lip. "I'll go! Please, take it off!"

Tom was a bit disappointed that she had capitulated so quickly, and he held the curse for a few seconds longer just because he was enjoying himself. But he lifted it eventually. Mrs. Granger continued to lie on the floor sobbing, of course, and not moving, but the screams stopped. He levitated the woman next to her husband and conjured a magical chain that he quickly set about manacling around their ankles.

"You—you're bringing them with us?" the girl asked weakly.

Tom dragged her up by the hair and shoved her in the direction of her parents. She stumbled and landed in a heap across their prone forms.

"Of course I'm bringing them, you stupid Mudblood. I can't believe I've been told that you are sensible."

He had no desire to explain it to her further if she couldn't figure it out for herself, but it was quite obvious to him. First, even the Ministry was not so incompetent that they would fail to notice a Hogwarts student and friend of Harry Potter being kidnapped when her parents were left behind. Either her parents would raise the alarm or, if they were Obliviated or given false memories, their memory lapses would be a sure sign that there was magical foul play involved. If they all came with him, he was counting on the Ministry's denial of his existence to lead them to believe that the Grangers had all disappeared in some sort of Muggle incident. After all, there would be absolutely no sign that anything magical had occurred, as he had been very careful to only use magic on the Grangers themselves and not on any doors or other objects that would leave behind a magical signature, and the lack of a Dark Mark or any other signature would have them refusing to attach the name Lord Voldemort to the disappearances. Surely the Dark Lord would sign his work if he was behind the disappearance of the best friend of the Boy Who Lived?

Honestly, why else had she thought that Lord Voldemort had used subterfuge to gain access to her home instead of blasting his way inside?

Second, Hermione had proven much easier to control if he had her parents under his power. He wouldn't mind torturing information out of her or forcing truth serum down her throat, but with a prisoner as important as this he preferred not to burn his bridges that way unless absolutely necessary.

With another roll of his eyes to signify his disgust at her idiocy, he tapped the chain he had conjured to turn it into a Portkey, and the Grangers spun away in a swirl of magic.

After a sweep through the house to make sure there was nothing out of place that would immediately indicate that something strange had happened—no television left on, no kettle still on the burner—he Apparated into the front drawing room of Malfoy Manor. Narcissa was waiting for him, but Abraxas and Lucius had gone about their days as usual (Abraxas attending a schmoozing business lunch and Lucius a Quidditch match of the professional team he owned) in order to stave off any suspicions that might happen to arise from the Grangers' disappearance.

"My Lord," she greeted him coolly, "our… _guests_ have arrived safely in the cellar."

Tom smirked, half in amusement at her attitude and half in pleasure for a mission well done. "Excellent. I imagine that you'll sort out the details of their stay."

She did not look pleased, but nonetheless she agreed and bowed as he strolled out of the room.

He would have to deal with her later.

Tom intended to leave the Granger girl to stew for a while before he interrogated her, so he made his way to the library to continue his research. He had made some headway on the Marks, but he still did not feel confident enough to use them without giving away his ignorance. There was also the matter of what to do about his other self. He had determined by this point that he needed to bring him back. Tom was already running out of time before everybody learned what he really was, and he simply did not have time to gain decades of knowledge and experience before he was found out. If he wanted to take over and change things, as he had always planned, then he needed his other self.

Exactly how to go about bringing him back was an entirely different matter, and one that Tom had no clear answer for. Yet.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>I base my assertion that **wizards age slower than Muggles** on the fact that Dumbledore in his seventies or so (in the flashbacks during CoS) still has auburn hair, and McGonagall in her sixties or seventies still has black hair. And they were all quite spry and didn't seem to be at all affected by age when dueling, including Voldemort, who was seventy-one when he died. I assume they don't dye their hair or have hip replacements, but rather wizards just age slower than Muggles.

**The Grangers' home and street**in DH Part 1 is in Hampstead Gardens; for my own convenience I've envisioned that street and house in this story. As for **Tom's orphanage**, we don't really know where it is, but in CS the back of the diary has a stamp from a bookshop on Vauxhall Road. That isn't a real road in London, but Vauxhall is a real enough place; I have decided that Tom would probably have been from Lambeth, which is a community in the same borough as Vauxhall, because during the 1920s (and beyond) it would have been a poorer area than Vauxhall. There was even a workhouse there in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

Their neighborhoods are about eight miles apart, which even today would be about an hour trip using public transportation. So if Tom's story had been true, he really would have had to have quite the crush on Hermione.


	5. Secrets and Lies

**Author's Notes:** It's really gratifying to see how many followers and favorites this story has received. The only way I could be more grateful is if you all reviewed. Speaking of which, thank you to my guest reviewers, whom I cannot thank privately, and thank you again to my logged in reviewers, who should have already received PMs in thanks.

* * *

><p>It seemed that the library was also Draco's usual refuge. Since he had been home he had disturbed Tom more than once at odd hours, opening the library door just a crack and then squeaking out a terrified "Forgive me, My Lord!" before closing it again and scurrying off. Tom hadn't had an opportunity to question the boy about it since he only ever saw him in the company of the adults. They had only just started to relax, as if they had finally accepted that Tom wasn't going to kill the child at any moment, and he had no desire to put them back on edge by questioning him in front of them.<p>

Their fear had been fun while it lasted, but fear was only a useful thing when it served a specific purpose. In this case it was quite counterproductive.

He was waiting for Draco the next time he cracked open the library door in the wee hours of the morning.

"Come in, Draco."

The boy paused, and Tom felt as if he could almost hear the hammering heartbeat from all the way across the cavernous room. Then he pushed the door the rest of the way open and entered warily, presenting Tom with a face that was desperately trying to appear confident and wide eyes that gave away his fears.

Draco came to kneel in front of him without having to be told to do so. He lowered his head so that Tom was presented with a view of his blond hair and the back of his neck. "Forgive me, My Lord."

"Why should I forgive you?"

"Please, I—I didn't mean to disturb you, My Lord," replied Draco, his cultured voice wavering.

Tom reached out to run his hand along the rumpled platinum locks as if he were petting a dog. He so enjoyed any human touch at all, these days. "Then why do you keep doing it?"

He could feel that Draco's body was as tense as a bowstring now, but to his credit he didn't stammer when he explained, "I had hoped that you had already retired, My Lord. I had finished with my books and wanted to select others, and I tried to wait until I wouldn't be intruding."

But Tom, who had no need to sleep, had taken to staying in the library all through the night when there was no chance of being disturbed by either of the elder Malfoys. The boy's behavior made much more sense to him now.

"Ah, Draco," he said softly, absentmindedly using his long fingers to straighten the tangles in the child's hair, "you need only have asked. Did you think that I would deny you the chance to learn?"

Draco trembled under the attention, but he replied, "I didn't think you would want to be bothered, My Lord."

"You are not as bold as your father. He would have already asked and been granted his request."

The littlest Malfoy audibly sucked in a breath. "I don't—I'm not… My father is your trusted servant, My Lord, and I'm… well—"

"A child?" filled in Tom. Swirling thoughts had begun to form something solid in his mind. "Yes, you are at that. But you want to be like your father; you are disappointed that I said you are not like him."

It hadn't been a question, but Draco answered anyway. "Yes. He has earned his place, and I want that."

Tom smiled and pulled his hand away from Draco's head. The boy was only telling half of the truth, he knew, and had chosen the most flattering part to tell. Tom had no doubt that Draco expected that earning his place was a foregone conclusion and would require little more than his last name and the strength of his father and grandfather behind him.

The real truth, that which Tom knew even Draco himself did not yet know, was that he would never be like his father. There was too much of his mother in him, and even from their brief acquaintance Tom already sincerely doubted that he would ever be able to torture or kill with impunity, for no reason and with no regrets, like his father and grandfather. The child was lucky that it was Tom he needed to follow now and not Tom's other self, because he had gathered that Lord Voldemort had little mercy and no need for followers who had consciences.

Draco Malfoy would either prove himself worthy of being one of Tom's, or he would most likely be killed trying to prove himself as one of Lord Voldemort's.

"You may use the library, Draco," Tom informed him. "You may even sit in here with me, if you are able to remain quiet and stay out of the way."

The blond head came up to reveal eyes wide now with awe instead of terror. "Oh, yes, My Lord! I swear I can! I'm one of Madam Pince's favorite students, you know."

Tom laughed, his normal laugh as opposed to the high, piercing noise he made to unnerve others. "Is that old bat still at Hogwarts? Just you keep in mind, Draco, that my punishments are far worse than a bit of shrieking and a detention."

Draco nodded. "I promise, My Lord!"

"Go to bed now," ordered Tom. "You're no use to anyone at this time of night, least of all to yourself. You may come back tomorrow…. Oh, and Draco, wizards do not swear unless they are willing to be bound by the most unyielding of magics. I ought not to have to remind you of this."

Draco did come back the next day, and the day after that. He remained quiet and unobtrusive unless Tom directly addressed him, which he did with increasing regularity as the days passed. He was pleased to discover that the boy had a keen mind and impressive magical acumen. He was not exceptional—really, who was exceptional compared to Tom?—but he was talented. And he was growing increasingly comfortable in Tom's presence; he was even occasionally willing to ask Tom to explain things from his readings, if Tom had indicated that he was allowed to speak.

He was sitting in his customary chair in the far corner of the library when his sires burst through the library doors a couple of weeks after Tom had kidnapped the Grangers. Lucius rushed to speak before Tom could even begin to express his anger at such an intrusion.

"My Lord, I have received information that the Ministry knows about the Muggles!"

Tom was immediately on his feet, the ancient, priceless tome he'd been holding in his lap falling to the floor in a heap. "_What_?"

Lucius spoke so quickly that Tom could barely make out his meaning. "My contact in the DMLE warned me that Dumbledore has contacted the Aurors claiming that the Muggles have been abducted and are being held in our cellars."

Where Lucius looked furious, Abraxas appeared merely put out by the inconvenience. He reached out and placed a hand on his son's shoulder to forestall the tirade.

"There is apparently a disagreement in the upper ranks of the Department, My Lord," explained Abraxas more calmly than Lucius could have. "Scrimgeour and many of his Aurors want to conduct an immediate raid on the manor, but Bones has put her foot down pending a hearing to review the evidence."

"Bones's unfailing sense of fairness is quite annoying at times," said Lucius, "but it is undeniably useful in this sort of situation. After all of their attempts last year failed to turn up any evidence of our dealing in the Dark Arts, she became quite strict about the Aurors being able to justify such raids before they are carried out."

Tom paced back and forth between the Malfoys and the cluster of chairs where he'd been sitting. "How much time do we have?"

"The hearing is scheduled for tomorrow morning, My Lord," Lucius informed him, adding a little sniff of disgust to the end.

Tom immediately felt a good measure of the tension leave his body. If there was no threat of Aurors knocking down the doors at any moment, then they had plenty of time to handle the problem. If they hadn't obviously had more pressing matters to deal with, he would have punished Lucius for his alarmist attitude. He made sure to keep his wand firmly up his sleeve lest he give into the temptation anyway.

"How could Dumbledore have gotten his information?"

Both Malfoys shared a glance, and it was Abraxas who spoke. "Should we not first devise a plan to allay suspicions, My Lord, and, perhaps, to get the Grangers out of the manor?"

"No, you fool." It had been a solid bit of foresight to keep his wand up his sleeve. "Dumbledore's information is too specific, too accurate, to be mere guesswork. If someone here has shared what they know, then they must be dealt with before we decide our next steps. It would do no good to plan evasive maneuvers if Dumbledore, and through him the Aurors, are just going to be informed about them."

Abraxas's spine stiffened. "No one here would have shared anything with Dumbledore, My Lord."

"I would be more inclined to believe you if the Aurors weren't on the verge of finding my prisoners."

Tom turned a steely glare on them so intimidating that they both fell to their knees with no further prompting.

"Look at me," he demanded, to which they both immediately complied. He locked eyes with Abraxas first. "Do you have any idea how this betrayal happened?"

The older man's thoughts were racing so quickly that Tom could not catch the details of all of them. However, two thoughts stood out above the rest: a desperate denial of any knowledge and an utter terror that his son would be found guilty. Tom released him with a sneer and turned to Lucius, who, his thoughts revealed, had no knowledge of the betrayal but was terrified that his wife had committed the deed.

Tom was not sure if these suspicious thoughts were the result of sheer love and fear of loss, or if they portended a more serious problem he needed to deal with.

His sneer deepened. "Well, it's clear that it was neither of you."

"Please, My Lord, none of us would have—all of us here are loyal to—" began Lucius, but Tom cut him off with a vicious hand tangling through his smooth blond locks.

"Silence, you fool. Do you forget that I can read your wife's thoughts as clearly as your own?" Tom used Lucius's long hair to pull his head back even further. "Your wife is not loyal to me. She is loyal to your son first and foremost, and I daresay she would leap in front of a Killing Curse out of love for you"—he spat the word _love_ as if he were speaking of the vilest thing imaginable—"not that you would deserve it. But she despises me."

Abraxas prostrated himself even further at Tom's feet. "My Lord, all of the communications in and out of the manor are monitored."

He undoubtedly had more to say, but he did not get the chance before his muscles contracted all at once and sent him flat to the floor with a keening moan. It was not the Cruciatus Curse but one that Tom had invented and perfected long before he'd known that what he was doing was magic, back when he had been dealing with cruel children at the orphanage. As it turned out, keeping his wand put away was no guarantee that he would keep his magic to himself.

Tom did not seriously think that Narcissa Malfoy had betrayed him, if only because she would have rather died herself than to put her son's or husband's lives in danger by angering the Dark Lord. No, his anger was because if she hadn't done it, then he didn't know who could have.

He knew that neither of the Malfoys were stupid enough to try to speak to him again when he was like this, no matter how much they might want to. Therefore he was shocked enough at the small voice that he reflexively tugged even harder on Lucius's hair.

"My Lord… Please, My Lord, the house-elves…"

Even through his whimper of pain, Lucius breathed out, "_Draco_…"

Tom pried his fingers out of the long blond hair and released Abraxas from the spell so that he could turn his full attention to the littlest Malfoy. Draco was standing beside the chair that Tom had abandoned, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. Tom tilted his head to consider him. "What was that?"

"You—you have to find someone who could have known everything and left the manor without anyone knowing." He visibly swallowed and tried to keep his gaze from straying to his suffering father and grandfather. "Mother couldn't have left or sent any messages without Grandfather knowing, but the house-elves could have."

The rest of them could only stare at Draco in various degrees of shock.

Tom's mind raced with everything he knew about house-elves, which he had to admit was not a whole hell of a lot. He had known that they were responsible for the cooking and cleaning at Hogwarts, but after a cursory bit of research he had dismissed them as otherwise useless creatures and thought no more about it.

Lucius staggered to his feet and began making his way to his son, as if his mere presence might have an impact on whatever Tom decided to do to the boy.

"Draco, cease this at once!" he ordered, his voice tense with terror. "You know that the house-elves cannot leave this manor or give away information without permission."

His son looked defiant and opened his mouth to speak, but Tom broke in with, "Have you given them all direct orders to that effect?"

Lucius looked at once confused and stymied, and he turned to his father.

Abraxas, who had only just managed to pick himself up off the floor and back onto his knees, shook his head in denial. "There is no need; it is in the nature of house-elves to be bound in loyalty to their masters. None of them could have left the grounds without direct permission."

"That's not true!" began his grandson, but Lucius clapped him hard on the shoulder.

"DRACO!"

Tom held up his hand for silence, and all of them immediately stilled. He held out his hand towards the youngest of them. "Come here, child."

The elder Malfoys both looked stricken at the command, but Draco walked over with a wary confidence born of his time spent alone with the Dark Lord. He knelt in front of Tom and looked up to shyly meet his eyes instead of bowing his head.

"Tell me," Tom commanded calmly.

"My personal elf, Knobby, visits me at Hogwarts sometimes," explained Draco, keeping his eyes on Tom's instead of looking at his father or grandfather when they both made noises of surprise. "I never asked him to the first time, and I don't think anyone else told him he was allowed. He just did it, because he missed me."

Tom saw in Draco's thoughts that this house-elf had been his constant companion as a young child, as it had been tasked with minding him as a nanny of sorts. It was probably not uncommon, Tom supposed, for families with such means to assign a house-elf to see to feeding and cleaning a young child instead of the parents. He lifted his eyes to look at Lucius, who looked as if he wanted to allow his jaw to drop in surprise and was only resisting due to years of training.

"I… No, I never gave it permission," he croaked.

From behind himself, Tom could hear Abraxas say, "Neither did I."

"Call them all here," was the immediate command. Then Tom turned his attention back to Draco. "You have done very well. Take your book and go for now."

By the time Draco had gathered his things and left the library, Lucius had helped his father to his feet and they had assembled a small army of rag-covered house-elves in a haphazard line in front of their master. Tom had no desire to speak to the little beasts himself, so he turned and gave his directive to Abraxas, who still looked a bit green around the edges from his ordeal.

"All of you," he addressed the ragtag group with a strong voice that belied his appearance, "are ordered to follow this man's orders as if he were one of your masters." Then he turned to receive Tom's next instruction before turning back to his house-elves. "I order whichever of you has given any information you have learned in this house to any other person who does not live in this house to step forward immediately."

All of the house-elves looked absolutely horrified, including the bat-like one who stepped forward, his enormous green eyes shimmering with fear and tears. Tom supposed that this one was horrified for an entirely different reason than all the rest of them. He recognized it at Lucius's personal house-elf.

"DOBBY!" roared Lucius, and he raised his heavy walking stick to deliver what would surely be a death blow if he put any measure of magic at all behind it.

Tom stilled his follower's hand with an almost bored tone. "Don't be stupid, Lucius. The little wretch is of far more use to us alive."

* * *

><p>That Friday night, Malfoy Manor was to fill up with Ministry officials from every conceivable department, although they had obviously been a bit heavy handed with invitations to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Neither Abraxas nor Lucius had been able to get any definitive information about the evidentiary hearing before Madam Bones, but as Aurors had yet to descend on the manor, it was safe to assume that she had not been impressed with the information Dumbledore had been able to give the Aurors.<p>

It was no surprise, really, given that all of the headmaster's information had come secondhand from Harry Potter by way of a traitorous house-elf who had only been able to offer him veiled hints and warnings.

Still, they had considered it far too risky to keep the prisoners at Malfoy Manor. Just as it was far too risky for Tom Riddle to stay in the house when it was to be full of Aurors who had been invited to a dinner party thrown for the sole purpose of making it seem like the Malfoys had nothing to hide and, in fact, had no idea that they had been under suspicion at all.

Tom Apparated out of the manor just as the magical carriages began carrying the first guests from the gates to the front door. He landed with barely a sound on the soft, long grass in front of a small, single-story cottage that had been left to Draco by his paternal great-grandmother.

"She always hated me and my son after me," Abraxas had explained, while Lucius had muttered something that sounded suspiciously like an insult under his breath, "but for some reason she grew attached to Draco and left all of her possessions and fortune directly to him, even though he was barely three when she died. I doubt that the Ministry knows anything about it, since _my_ great-grandfather built it and warded it himself for his wife's pleasure, and it has never been connected to the Floo Network."

He had only been inspired enough to come up with such a solution after Tom had held him under the Cruciatus Curse for a solid five minutes for daring to suggest that Tom might consider his filthy Muggle father's house in Little Hangleton.

When Tom opened the door to the small, windowless walk-in closet that had been converted to hold the prisoners, the smell of human waste and unwashed flesh assaulted his sensitive nose. He fought valiantly to control his natural reaction and succeeded in merely sneering in distaste instead of recoiling. Three pairs of eyes glared out at him from the darkness, and he reached out with his magic to forcibly haul the Mudblood to her feet.

"Come, Granger. It's time to see what you can offer me."

It was the work of a moment to secure her in one of the kitchen chairs. She squeezed her eyes shut at the magical candlelight that illuminated the cottage and bent her head forward so that her mass of hair shielded her face. Tom thought that her hair was so matted that it was probably beyond repair and would need to be shaved off and started anew (not that he was planning on giving her the opportunity to do so).

He flicked his wrist and, with a cry of surprise and pain from his prisoner, her head flew back to expose her face to him.

"You have two choices, Mudblood: You can tell me what I want to know and earn yourself and your filthy parents some better living conditions, or you can deny me and I can make your lives now look like heaven in comparison to what I will do to you."

Even through her filth and her pain, her brown eyes glared at him defiantly. "If you wanted me to cooperate, maybe you should have started out treating us a bit more humanely."

Tom had read about such bravery in many of the Muggle stories he had consumed as a child, and he had heard that such valor earned the respect of many. Personally, he could only feel revulsion at such utter stupidity.

He allowed his childhood torture spell to wrack her weakened body until tears and snot cleared trails down her dirty face.

"Next time it will be the Cruciatus Curse. Oh, yes," he added at her surprised look, "what you just experienced was not the Unforgivable. That was a little thing I invented years before I got my Hogwarts letter or my wand. And, of course, if you find the Cruciatus Curse to be insufficient motivation, I will have to use your filthy mother to demonstrate the effects of prolonged exposure—it's anatomically impossible to make one's brain actually fall out the ears, you know, but I can turn it to mush quite easily."

He knew he had defeated her when her lower lip began to tremble, and he congratulated himself on having the foresight to bring her parents along. He was certain that she would have rather been tortured than betray her friend, but she could not willingly sentence her parents to such a fate.

"Okay," she whimpered. "I'll tell you whatever you want to know, if I can."

Tom rewarded her with a cold smile that he knew perverted his exceedingly handsome features and made him look quite demented. "I knew you are a smart girl, Granger. I want to know how Harry Potter survived in the Chamber of Secrets."

Her eyes went wide. "I—I don't know that. No one does!"

"No one?" he asked. "Not even Dumbledore?"

She shook her head quite vehemently. "If Dumbledore knows then he didn't tell Harry. He told Harry that it had something to do with his mother, that she had left behind her protection on the night you tried to k—kill him. It's the s—same thing he said after you attacked Harry before."

Tom had always been something of a natural Legilimens. He had always been able to get a general impression of someone's state of mind, to tell what their main emotion was at a given moment or, more importantly, to tell if they were lying. He had learned more during his time at Hogwarts, and he could have invaded Granger's mind for more information. However, he could tell that she was not lying, and he was not yet so skilled in the art that he would leave her mind completely intact should she try to resist him. He decided that this early in their acquaintance any additional details he might have been able to pick up through invasive Legilimency were not worth the risk of ruining her.

Instead, he tried a different approach. "Tell me how Potter was affected by our little adventure."

* * *

><p>Hours later, he was no closer to answers than he had been before he'd interrogated the filthy little Mudblood. She had only been able to tell him things that he had either already known, such as that Potter had lost his ability to speak Parseltongue, or could have guessed for himself, such as that Potter was emotionally traumatized by the loss of the two Weasley brats.<p>

He had half a mind to refuse to improve their living conditions as he had said he would, since she hadn't told him anything remotely useful, but in the end he decided that she needed to be able to trust his word. And, in any case, if he told the house-elves to clean the closet at least once every few days, then _he_ wouldn't have to experience such a horrible odor the next time he saw her.

Abraxas found him brooding in the library surrounded by stacks of mostly illegal books. He gingerly took the seat across from him without waiting to be invited.

"Tom…"

Tom had already raised his head to acknowledge the address before it occurred to him that he really ought to have cursed the man to the deepest level of Tartarus and back for using that name.

"I know," said Abraxas before Tom could react. "I know that you aren't really—that you're _you_ and not _him_."

He might have to either Obliviate or outright kill the man for that, but Tom figured that he owed him at least the courtesy of being able to say what he had come to say. His tone was wry when he said, "You took a risk calling me that."

Abraxas's face was serious, and when he nodded the dim lamplight played across his dark eyes and pale hair in a way that made him look quite ghoulish. "I know. It was a calculated risk, just like mentioning your fa—well, you know which place—was a calculated risk."

"If I had been him I would have killed you on the spot for either offense," guessed Tom.

"You would have killed me on the spot for calling you 'Tom,'" agreed Malfoy. "But he has lost so much of his humanity that I am not sure he still feels enough to have wanted to kill me for mentioning that place. I wanted to see how much you feel."

Tom leaned back in his seat and folded his long fingers in his lap. "I hope the results were worth the punishment you received for mentioning that place to me." Abraxas was still moving as if he were twice his actual age due to the effects of the prolonged torture, and Tom smirked when he winced at the reminder. "What convinced you so thoroughly that you were willing to risk yourself to confirm the truth?"

"Many things, Tom. I admit that I was never entirely at ease with your physical appearance or the circumstances surrounding the diary, but _that_," he emphasized with a little flourish of his hand, "would have been nothing if not for your reactions that backed up my suspicions. _He_ would have likely killed Draco on the spot for speaking to him the way my grandson did to you, and he certainly would not have allowed the boy to share the library with him afterwards. He would have been able to read every thought in my mind from all the way across the room without eye contact, but you had me stare into your eyes. But I knew for certain after you used that torture spell on me; he had stopped using it entirely by the time he had left Hogwarts."

Tom smiled ruefully at his oldest follower. He might have been able to pull it off for longer with nearly anyone else, but it seemed that Abraxas was far too familiar with the differences between him and his other self.

"You must have some plan for this information, Malfoy. You would have kept silent otherwise."

Abraxas leaned forward, although the movement caused him to let out a little breath full of discomfort. "No, I don't have a plan. But you do, and I can help you. I can fill in all of the information you lack, and with my help you can move forward. You _are_ going to bring him back, are you not?"

_Ah, so that's it_, thought Tom. _Malfoy wants to be able to tell Lord Voldemort that he had a hand in his return, no doubt to make up for these ten years of doing nothing_.

He allowed a full smile to grace his face. "I am."

It was only when Abraxas was leaving the library a few minutes later that Tom pulled out his wand.

"Oh, and Malfoy," he called, causing the older man to turn back to face him, "I find that I much prefer being addressed as 'My Lord.' _Crucio_."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>Rufus Scrimgeour was Head of the Auror Office in the early 90s, before he was promoted to Minister of Magic after Fudge left office. Until she was killed by Voldemort in 1996, Amelia Bones was Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, of which the Auror Office is a subdivision, so she would have been Scrimgeour's boss.

In case there is any confusion on the subject: Since Harry was in the hospital wing directly after the Chamber incident, and indeed he didn't have the diary with him in any case, he didn't free Dobby as he did in canon.


	6. The Knights of Walpurgis

**Author's Notes: **Thank you again to everyone who favorited, followed, and reviewed.

**If you are a long-time reader, please be aware that I have updated the first chapter to add a list of warnings to this story.** Like I say on Ch. 1, the version on this site won't go beyond an R-rated movie. I just don't want to risk it being taken down, or myself banned. I'll let you know when the versions start to change so you can look at the higher-rated version on another site if you want.

* * *

><p>Tom landed in front of a high iron gate that rose into spikes at least five feet above his head. Abraxas walked towards the gate and, with a shimmer of familiar Dark magic that Tom recognized as his own, passed directly through it. Tom followed him up a narrow walkway, peering through the unnatural Darkness on either side that stopped him from actually seeing more than a few feet away from the path. It was clearly malevolent. And clearly his own magic.<p>

The house, at least what he could see of it, appeared to be an abandoned manor house built at least a century before. Abraxas had told him that the Muggle owners had been killed, but the entrance hall was still filled with unmoving Muggle portraits of the family that appeared to date back at least six or seven generations.

Abraxas breezed past them without looking and stopped in front of a pair of large double doors.

"Ah, Malfoy," came the hiss from inside, an odd mix of English with a Parseltongue accent.

He apparently took that as permission to enter and slipped through the doors, but Tom lingered outside, suddenly nervous about what he would find inside.

"My Lord, Edgar Bones is dead, along with his wife and children for good measure."

"Good, I am glad to hear it." Voldemort's voice was high and cold, and even Tom couldn't tell whether he was actually glad or just saying empty words. "Is this your doing?"

Tom didn't hear Abraxas's reply, because he had stepped through the door and was staring in horror at the mutilated face of his other self. The skin was as pale as snow and appeared stretched over features that seemed somehow blurred, as if someone had tried to erase a chalkboard but only succeeded in making a mess. The gleaming red eyes drew him in, and he felt like he was sinking deeper and deeper under black water.

He pulled himself out of the Pensieve so hard that he slammed himself against the back of his seat.

"_That_…" he began, then trailed off, utterly unable to keep the shock and disgust out of his voice. He looked up at Malfoy, who was watching him nervously from a chair across from him. "How did _that_ happen?"

"I don't know for sure, My Lord. In hindsight he began to change even when we were still in school." Here he glanced at Tom, who knew they were both thinking that it had probably started with his own creation. "It came on so gradually at first that those of us who spent time with him every day didn't notice any change. Then he left on his travels, and when I saw him later it was… shocking, My Lord. And he only got worse as the years went on. I can't even imagine the things he must have done to himself."

Tom could well imagine some of the things his other self had done. He had begun planning many things before he'd been put into the diary. What he couldn't imagine was why his other self hadn't stopped at the first sign of such horrible side effects.

"And his mental state?"

Abraxas looked pained for a moment, as if he were reluctant to answer truthfully lest Tom Cruciate him for it. "Similar to his physical state."

_Was all of that just because of the Horcruxes? Or was he affected by other rituals or experiments, too?_ wondered Tom. If it had been just the Horcruxes, then he really had to wonder whether creating six of them was really such a great idea. Surely any benefits derived from having a seven-part soul couldn't possibly outweigh _those_ consequences.

He let out a breath that was the only outward expression of his thoughts he would allow himself.

He needed the other Horcruxes before he went after his other self. He needed to study them, and, more importantly, if his other self was as affected mentally as he was physically, then he needed control of the other Horcruxes so that Voldemort wouldn't think he was expendable. Tom knew that if _he_ were confronted with another version of himself popping up out of the woodwork, he would probably view it as a threat. He could only imagine how someone who had fallen as low as his other self would react. So an insurance policy was definitely needed.

Tom really didn't want to have to dodge Fiendfyre from Lord Voldemort.

"I need other followers. My Knights."

He didn't really want to involve anyone else, and he had been undecided about doing it until he'd seen Abraxas's memory. Now he knew that he couldn't do it without them, no matter how much it absolutely galled him to have to admit it, even in the privacy of his own thoughts. The time in the diary must have made him more circumspect, because he couldn't imagine thinking any such thing before.

Still, he would only use—and only reluctantly—those he knew personally.

Abraxas explained, "Rosier's dead. Broken heart, I think; he was a shell of a man after his only child was killed by Aurors. Avery died in a magical accident a couple of years ago. Dolohov is in Azkaban. Only Lestrange, Nott, and Mulciber are alive and free, excepting myself."

"Mulciber already knows, or at least suspects. He seemed hopeful at the idea of my return," Tom mused aloud.

"His son was caught near the end of the first war and put into Azkaban, and Mulciber lost his position at the Ministry as a result. It only made him more determined to follow you."

"What about Lestrange and Nott?"

"My Lord, you know that Lestrange would do anything you asked of him, especially with you looking like this." A smirk had appeared on his face, but at Tom's cold stare it quickly slipped back off. He cleared his throat. "He is loyal, My Lord. He has two sons who were sent to Azkaban for torturing Aurors in your name, and he gave up his post as a Hit Wizard rather than publically denounce their actions and therefore you. He's lucky he was able to escape and abscond to France before they could toss him into a cell next to his children."

If Tom recalled correctly, it had been Lestrange's ambition to become a Hit Wizard since before even coming to Hogwarts. If he was really willing to give it all up rather than denounce his lord, then he was indeed much more loyal than all of the others who had scrambled to convince the Ministry that they had never been his followers. (_The Malfoys included_, he thought bitterly.)

"And Nott?"

The corners of Abraxas's mouth tightened. "He was never suspected in the first war and has gone to great lengths to avoid those of us who were, or even those of us who have family members who were accused or convicted. He has a son Draco's age, but the boy has never been allowed to be friendly with Draco."

"That is a disappointment," said Tom, his voice cold and high.

"Yes, My Lord, but may I suggest—that is, you may not have considered, given that you only have memories up to a certain point, but many of the other Knights also had sons who were among your most trusted Death Eaters. Avery, for example—"

Tom pinned him with a calculating stare, and he immediately stopped talking.

"I have considered it." Tom offered no more explanation than that, but Abraxas bowed his head in deference and thought it best to remain silent.

* * *

><p>The Muggles' prison was much more tolerable the next time Tom visited. Granted their physical states were worse—Granger's hair looked as if vermin had taken to living in it—but at least their closet was clean.<p>

"You see that I have kept my word," Tom said to the girl. "I will likewise keep my word to make things much worse for you if you give me a reason. Will you cooperate now?"

She rose shakily from the bare floor, using the wall to support herself, and mutely followed him out of the closet. She looked longingly at the bed as they passed it, and she sighed as they passed the open bathroom door, but she kept her peace. She hesitated briefly when she caught sight of the same chair where he'd restrained her the last time, still sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor, but at his pointed stare she gingerly lowered herself into it.

He saw no need for restraints at this point. He appeared to be gaining some modicum of her trust—or at least her reluctant faith that he would keep his word—and he had enough experience with weak children to know that he could get more out of her through mind games than through physical ones.

Still, he took out his wand. She flinched as he pointed it at her, then a glint of recognition lit up her dull brown eyes.

"Recognize it, do you? It's still his, you know. I didn't win it from him, but rather he carelessly threw it away in his haste to see about poor little dying Ginny. He's quite stupid, your friend; almost as stupid as you, the Mudblood who didn't have her wand on her when Lord Voldemort invaded her home."

She drew in an indignant breath but mercifully didn't speak. Tom smirked.

"Ah, good, you're learning. There might be hope for you yet." He pressed the tip of the wand to her temple and she drew in another breath, this time a gasp of fear. "It doesn't really matter that the wand isn't mine. It isn't as comfortable as my own wand, but I am extraordinary and can perform magic you can only dream of, Mudblood, even with my enemy's wand. For instance"—he pressed the wand harder into her skin—"I could invade your mind and take every thought, every memory, away from you. I could find out your worst nightmares and make you believe that you're living them until you go mad."

Granger shuddered but remained defiant.

Tom prodded her with the wand until she tilted her head back and met his eyes. "I can also take away everything that makes you who you are: your personality, your _intelligence_…. Imagine your poor parents' reactions when I return them a daughter who thinks she's a teapot, with the intelligence to match," he said casually, as if he were speaking to a friend over tea. "I think I'll let you keep your memories, though, so that you'll remember what you've lost."

He wasn't really good enough yet to do exactly what he'd said—certainly he could scramble her brains, but he didn't have the finesse he'd described—but he would be soon after he convinced his other self to teach him. And in any case, the Mudblood had no reason to doubt him.

Her eyes had gone wide now and she stared at him in horror, her gaze darting back and forth between each of his eyes as if trying to determine if he was telling the truth. He gave her a cold smile.

"Which is more important to you, Hermione Granger: your mind or your silly delusions about courage?"

He really ought to have phrased it as herself or her friend Harry Potter, but he figured that she would be more likely to succumb this way. He was correct, of course; she dropped her gaze to her lap and drew a shuddering breath.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Do?" he echoed, a hint of amusement in his tone. "That's an interesting turn of phrase, but I confess you'll have to give me time to think of things for you to _do_ for me. For now I want the same as before: information."

She had stiffened again. "Please, I was telling the truth before. I—I really don't know anything else about the Chamber."

Tom stepped away from her, feeling no need to be in such close proximity now that she was cooperating.

"Indeed, I would have known immediately had you been lying. What I'm interested in is something else you mentioned: the previous time Harry Potter and I encountered one another."

She blinked up at him owlishly. "Th—the Philsopher's Stone, you mean? Do you need it for immortality even though you've already got another body?"

"It is not for you to question me, Mudblood!" he snapped. Internally, his thoughts were racing. _The Philosopher's Stone… Of course! My other self is in need of a body. Could Potter have defeated him another time_? With barely any external pause, he continued, "You will tell me about our little adventure from Potter's perspective."

She bit her lower lip at his outburst but, after a short pause to collect herself, explained, "We found the Cerberus in the beginning of the year and I noticed that it was guarding a trapdoor, although we didn't learn until later what was down there. We thought all year that it was Professor Snape who was trying to steal whatever Fluffy was guarding, and that he was the one who let the troll into the dungeons as a distraction and cursed Harry's broom. I went for help while Harry faced you, so I didn't know until he told me afterwards that it was _you_—that you had possessed Professor Quirrel."

Tom narrowed his eyes at her. _Possession, of course… He must be too weak to do much else without his own body._

"And how did Harry Potter defeat my—me?" he asked, almost slipping and saying "my other self."

Granger swallowed nervously. "It's like I said last time: Professor Dumbledore told Harry that Professor Quirrel couldn't stand his touch because _you_ couldn't stand his touch, because his mother left him with protection on the night you killed her…. I—I'm sure that Professor Quirrel's body was only being kept alive through the possession because of the unicorn blood, so he was probably particularly susceptible to—"

"Yes, that's quite enough speculation from you, Mudblood," cut in Tom, even though he figured that she was probably entirely correct. He just didn't want to hear anymore.

Unicorn blood. Merlin and Morgana, what had his other self gotten himself into? He wondered if now he'd have to deal with some mystical unicorn curse on top of the already formidable obstacles associated with getting an at-least-half-mad Dark Lord a functioning body. It had better all be worth it—his other self better have retained his knowledge and experience—or else Tom was going to be severely put out by the whole thing.

* * *

><p>Lucius was standing stiffly in the front drawing room when Tom Apparated back to the manor. He executed a formal bow that did nothing to hide his displeasure.<p>

"My Lord, both Lestrange and Mulciber are waiting for you in Father's study."

Poor Lucius was taking it quite badly that Tom had called in other followers. Apparently he did not like to share.

"Time does tend to get away from me when I'm having fun," replied Tom.

He really had lost track of time, but truthfully he hadn't found his discussion with the Mudblood the least bit fun after she'd started her story. Now he found himself in the unenviable position of not being in control of the situation, and he mentally cursed himself and the Granger girl quite soundly as he walked towards Abraxas's study half a step behind Lucius.

Lucius stopped at the door and reached out to open it for Tom, but Tom smiled grimly and pressed his wand into the man's side. "After you."

Malfoy's eyes widened in surprise and a little fear, but he stepped through the door willingly.

Tom smirked a bit at his own paranoia about entering the room first or leaving Malfoy at his back, but all the same he kept his wand in his hand by his side as Lucius stepped aside and Tom stepped into the doorway. He knew that they couldn't really harm him short of using Fiendfyre or basilisk venom or something equally as destructive, but old habits died hard when he felt out of control.

Mulciber was staring at him with his mouth hanging open, and Lestrange's blue eyes were comically wide and his face pale as a sheet.

"Ah, My Lord, welcome back," greeted Abraxas, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards and a hint of humor in his voice. "As you can see, Richard and Rastaban had not quite accepted the idea that you could be back."

Lestrange stayed glued to his seat, his gaze likewise glued to Tom's face, but Mulciber flew out of his chair and onto his knees.

"My Lord, I had hoped for this since I heard the Potter boy speak about the diary!"

Tom allowed himself a brief smile, just a slight upturn at the corners of his lips that everyone except Lestrange probably wasn't paying enough attention to catch. "Yes, I saw as much in Lucius's memory."

Lestrange startled out of his frozen stupor, apparently brought back to reality by the sound of Tom's voice. One moment he was in his chair and the next he had all but knocked Mulciber over in his haste to kneel before his lord. He didn't bow his head but stared up into Tom's eyes with a searching gaze.

"_Master_," he said on an exhale that seemed to have been torn from his throat. "Please believe that I never doubted your ability to return. I was only afraid that what Malfoy said was too good to be true!"

He seemed unable to say more but looked up at Tom imploringly.

Tom examined the lines around the man's eyes and mouth, which certainly had not been there the last time he'd seen Rastaban Lestrange. He wasn't sure that he would ever get entirely used to seeing the teenagers from his memories as middle-aged wizards fifty years later. By now Mulciber had righted himself and given Lestrange a little shove in retaliation that the man hardly seemed to notice. Tom did notice, and he curled his tongue against the roof of his mouth even as he gestured for the two to remove themselves from the floor.

"I wonder, with all of this dedication so freely offered to me now, why none of you"—here he looked up at the Malfoys to include them in his indictment—"bothered to try to find my other self in the intervening decade."

Mulciber and the Malfoys all flinched and opened their mouths to try to excuse themselves, but it was Rastaban who spoke first, as earnestly as Tom had ever heard anyone speak.

"I did try to find you—him! My sons were doing my bidding when they were caught, and after I fled the country to escape their fate, I followed every lead I was able to get from my contacts back in Britain. I swear it!"

"I well believe it coming from you," allowed Tom. Rastaban looked as if Tom had presented him with the grandest prize he could imagine. "Still, I doubt that Lord Voldemort will be particularly appeased by your hopes and dreams, given that they amounted to nothing."

Lestrange deflated all at once, looking as pained as if Tom had kicked him right in the bollocks. Tom did not soften his glare at all, but after a few moments he turned it on the other three occupants of the study.

"As for the rest of you, who never tried to find him at all, I imagine that he will be angry beyond all description. Yes," he added to preempt the words that were clearly on the tip of Lucius's tongue, "even at you, Lucius. Do you truly imagine that Lord Voldemort is going to be pleased that you released me into the world? Do you imagine that he will see me as anything other than a usurper that you unleashed by disobeying his explicit instructions to keep me hidden?"

Lucius looked ill, as did his father, who was clearly worried for his son's life.

"However…" he drew out until they were all hanging on his words, "if you help to bring him back now, then he might be more forgiving of your previous failures than otherwise. And, gentlemen, _I_ will be pleased with your efforts should we succeed."

He did not feel the need to add that he would punish any of them who failed him. They all knew it; he was not as insane as Voldemort, but three of them well remembered his temper even at school, and Lucius had experienced enough of it in the past weeks since his return. Silence reigned as they all mulled over his words, until finally Lucius, by far the boldest of the group, ventured the question Tom knew they all wanted to ask.

"My Lord… Forgive me, I mean no offense and certainly no treason by asking, but I admit to being curious…. I wonder why—and please know that a word from you will silence me forever on the subject—you want to bring him back at all, if he will view you as a threat."

Tom laughed the high laugh that was utterly at odds with his appearance, and all four of them shuddered at the sound, more so Lestrange and Mulciber, who were as yet unused to hearing the sound again outside of their memories.

"Do you think that he will never find a way to return? He came close to succeeding a year ago and was only stopped through unforeseen circumstances beyond his control." Tom thought it best not to mention Lily Potter's apparent protection, or Potter's involvement at all. He allowed his cold gaze to take in all of their reactions. "I see that none of you had any inkling of this, although you certainly should have known that he cannot truly die and would have come back eventually."

He swept across the room and took a seat in one of the regal chairs across from Abraxas's desk. Mulciber and Lestrange, who had both been standing, immediately lowered themselves to their knees so as not to be higher than their lord. Lucius followed suit a second later, and Tom thought to himself that having his other Knights around was going to have a profoundly positive influence on the man.

"My friends, it is better that we take the dragon by the horns and control the circumstances of his return, than that we wait for that inevitable time when he manages it himself. This way you can earn some of his forgiveness, perhaps even his favor, and I can show him that I have no wish to be a threat to him."

Their expressions and a quick mental scan of their surface emotions told Tom that they were all on board with his plan and agreed that it was necessary and perhaps even the best course of action. He was glad that it had been so easy to gain their support by feeding into their fears and their hopes for Lord Voldemort's favor, because he could never have admitted the entire to truth to anybody.

That is, Tom was not going to get very far very quickly without his other self's expertise, and unbeknownst to them, his followers were going to help him gain the means to control Lord Voldemort.

* * *

><p>Tom was absolutely incensed and not a little disbelieving. He had nearly cursed Lestrange for a presumptuous liar when he'd come forward with the information, but in the end he supposed that his other self probably <em>was<em> mad enough to have done it. And Lestrange had been nothing but earnest when he'd explained that the Dark Lord had given him one of his precious objects to keep in his Gringotts vault and had said enough to him that he believed one other was hidden in Tom's mother's house.

_Little Hangleton_. It left a bitter trail through his mind when he mentally spoke the name. In one part of his mind it seemed like it had been only weeks since he'd come here, and in another part of his mind he fully felt the span of five decades between then and now.

_Did he absolutely lose his fucking mind?_

The welcoming wave of familiar Dark magic that washed over him as he approached the horrible little hut was answer enough, and he actually allowed a hiss to escape.

"Absolutely bloody barking!" he exclaimed in Parseltongue, addressing his other self as if he was actually there to hear Tom's rant. "Albus fucking Dumbledore knows our middle name, you utter idiot, and it isn't as if there's a surplus of Marvolos who speak Salazar's language forming a queue to get into Hogwarts! As if your bloody loose-lipped pillow talk with Lestrange wasn't bad enough!"

The door to the Gaunt shack was clearly heavily magically reinforced, and a brief examination revealed that it would take a blood sacrifice and a password to enter.

"Because Dumbledore couldn't at all manage to get past your little wards after you've left them here without any maintenance for who knows how long!" he continued to hiss aloud. "Open!"

The door opened for him without the sacrifice, and Tom hoped that it was only because it recognized his magic and not because the protections had deteriorated so much that they would have let anybody in without it.

He was still muttering to himself as he bent to fit through the low doorway, which is no doubt why it didn't immediately occur to him that the voice that greeted him was also in Parseltongue.

"Master?" it asked, sounding a bit torn about it. "You feel like him and speak like him, but you don't smell the same…."

Tom blinked and increased the intensity of his light to illuminate the entire room, which wasn't difficult given how cramped it was. There was a snake of unidentifiable species rearing up a body length away from him. The part of its body that was off the ground was almost as tall as he was, and the rest of its length was situated in large coils.

_Oh, well, at least he thought to protect it using more than just a bloody door_! He almost rolled his eyes, but cursing his absent other self out in Parseltongue was quite enough childishness for one day.

Clearly the serpent was of magical origins, and although he couldn't identify it he assumed—hoped—that controlling it was much the same as controlling the basilisk.

He allowed his voice to fill with his magic. "I am your master. I have come to remove the ring from your care; it is no longer safe here. You will not hinder me."

The snake gave no response and made no move as he edged towards the corner of the little room that seemed to almost pulse with Dark magic, so he assumed that it had worked. Even if it hadn't and the snake decided to attack him suddenly, what were the chances that his other self had bred some new species of magical serpent with venom that worked like that of the basilisk?

Actually, now that he'd thought about it, Tom thought the chances were pretty high.

He kept one eye on the snake as he crept towards the small, elaborately decorated chest. Something inside pulsated in time with his own heart, and it was difficult to keep his attention trained on anything other than the feeling. His pulse hammered throughout his entire body and blood pounded in his ears, and his magic thrummed along with it in perfect sync with the Dark magic bleeding out of the chest.

He forgot entirely about the very real snake looming over him as he knelt down and ran his fingers reverently along the top of the lid. The carved snakes decorating the chest came to life and slithered toward his hand, hissing warm greetings and seeming to bask in the warmth of his magic.

With a last touch, he hissed, "Open, my love."

Whether the chest worked on the same Parseltongue password as the Chamber's entrance and the shack's door, or whether the Horcrux inside really had answered his call, Tom neither knew nor cared. The lid had clicked open and that was all that mattered. His uncle's ring gleamed up at him, its own inherent Darkness seeming somehow to have overtaken everything surrounding it. He reached out and caressed it, and it seemed to flood his body with itself and return the touch from the inside out.

Tom moaned from low in his throat, a completely involuntary action on his part. The other Horcrux seemed to pulse with reciprocated feeling.

He slipped the ring onto his finger, and all was right in the world for a few blissful seconds.

Then the pain shot through his finger and up his arm, and he hissed out several colorful phrases and ripped it back off his hand. The curse seemed to struggle to gain hold of his body, and he involuntarily shook his shriveled hand in a vain attempt to alleviate the pain, until finally the magic seemed to wear itself out. With nothing to latch onto, the curse dissipated, and Tom watched through narrowed eyes as his hand returned to normal, much more slowly than when he'd cut or burned himself but still quickly enough that he wasn't worried.

He opened his other hand to look at the ring resting innocently in his palm. It pulsed through him again, and Tom wasn't sure if he was imagining it or if it was laughing at him.

"Go ahead and have your laugh," he told it in their magical language. "You just wait and see whether I take the time to remove that curse."

This time Tom was quite sure that his fellow Horcrux pulsed in protest.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>Edgar Bones was Madam Amelia Bones's brother. He was killed in the first war along with his entire family (as we find out from Susan Bones and Moody in OotP), and if you'll recall, Amelia Bones was killed in the summer of HBP, some think by Voldemort himself. (According to JKR's interviews, Edgar and Amelia's parents were also killed in the first war, but no one says this in the canon.)

As in my other story, I've used my little head canon here regarding Lestrange Sr's name. Rabastan is JKR's bastardization of the star's actual name, which is Rastaban (meaning "head of the serpent," actually in the constellation Draco), and it bugged me enough that I had to think of why the characters would have changed it. So in my head canon the brothers' mother dislikes her husband's given name and Sr. didn't win the battle to have his first son named after him, hence Rodolphus, but by the time the second son was born he'd managed to get his wife to accept the bastardized version, Rabastan.

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><p><strong>Review Response: <strong>Even though I usually only respond to anonymous reviews with a thank you, I think that your review, "Reader," deserves a bigger response, since it was so long and brought up specific issues. I've put a really scary amount of thought into all of this and would be happy to discuss it in-depth with you privately, but publically I will limit myself to a few remarks:

Regarding the touching, the only time Tom has acted on his desire to touch others has been to dominate or terrify them (or both), so I hardly think it's time to break out the sexy music for that. (The end of this chapter is really closer to that than anything before, but that's about the soul... Otherwise my lips are sealed for now!) As for a lack of paranoia/madness, I think that Tom (not Voldemort) in canon was sane and quite arrogant (for good reason); additionally, in this story he's actually a Horcrux. Even still I have always taken care to write him showing _some_ level of paranoia, such as in Ch. 1, Ch. 3, and again in this chapter.

I'm glad that you liked the last chapter and that you particularly enjoyed his romp through suburbia (I did, too!). I appreciate your review and hope that this response has alleviated some of your concerns and that you enjoyed this installment. And if you want to discuss it or anything else about the story in-depth, I do hope you'll take me up on the offer to do so in private-not that I'll give away spoilers, but otherwise.


	7. Magic Makes Might

**Author's Notes: **There is violence and non-consensual sexual activity in this chapter. Tom is an evil, sadistic little blighter. The higher rated version is available at AO3 or Adult Fanfiction (links on my profile page).

* * *

><p>"My Lord, the risk of Lestrange going into Diagon Alley as himself is far too high! He will be arrested on sight if any Auror or Hit Wizard recognizes him!"<p>

"It's a risk that I have to take, My Lord! The goblins will never allow me to access my vault if I'm under the influence of any sort of potion or spell to conceal my identity!"

They had been discussing the subject of Lestrange safely accessing his Gringotts vault for the better part of an evening, and at this point the argument had gone around in circles. Tom had been lounging sideways across an overstuffed armchair, half of his attention on the ring he was idly weighing in his hand and the rest on his followers' disagreement. It was always interesting to watch people on two sides of a debate bellow ineffectively at each other without realizing any common ground, and for Tom it was a nice opportunity to gauge the interactions between the four. It seemed that Lestrange had a special dislike of the Malfoys, and Mulciber was attempting to hedge his bets with both of them.

Finally, the noise became too grating on his nerves. Tom waved his hand lazily in the air, and the silence was immediate.

"Lestrange, you will travel to Gringotts under Polyjuice Potion. Your willingness to put yourself at risk for my benefit is admirable, but sacrificing yourself to Azkaban would not do either of us any good." He turned his eyes to the Malfoys, who were looking quite smug that he had agreed with them. "In fact, he will go as one of you, and the other will accompany him. I expect that you will be in contact with the goblins beforehand to smooth the way."

It was not an impossible task, especially when vaults the size of the Malfoys' and Lestranges' were involved, but dealing with the goblins was never _easy_. Abraxas and Lucius shared a glance full of trepidation.

* * *

><p>The month it took Polyjuice Potion to simmer seemed interminable to Tom. Lucius had strongly favored the idea of simply obtaining the premade potion from his usual dealer, but under no circumstances would Tom leave such an important mission up to the reliability of a potion maker he didn't know (and hadn't threatened into compliance himself). No, for something as important as the retrieval of a Horcrux, he had to brew the potion himself.<p>

The only problem was that it was _boring_. Certainly he didn't mind the exact science of cutting and measuring and stirring, but thinking about keeping an eye on the potion as it simmered for hours and days at a time made even him who didn't need sleep want to doze off from sheer boredom.

Unfortunately, Lestrange had always been absolutely dreadful at potions, and his remaining followers all had other things to work on, both for Tom and in their professional lives, and could not dedicate their full time to watching a cauldron simmer. However, Lucius had been quite happy to put forward his son, much to Abraxas's anxiety and Tom's amusement.

"You want me to accept a second-year student as suitable for this task?" he had asked, equal parts critical and curious.

"Third year!" Draco had butted in. Then he'd shrunk back against his father in horror and added, "My Lord."

Tom had rewarded him with a baleful glare. "Third year, then."

Lucius had flushed in embarrassment, but persuaded Tom quite admirably. "My son is particularly gifted in Potions, My Lord, and he does not have any other assignments or concerns to take his attention off of the potion, as the rest of us do. I am certain that he is more than capable of keeping an eye on it and ensuring that you stay on the brewing schedule."

"There is merit in the idea," Tom had allowed.

"I will take full responsibility for my son, My Lord. Although I am confident that it will be unnecessary."

Tom had given them both a genuine smile filled with the full measure of his sadistic amusement. "Lucius, if your son fails, I will hold you both equally and fully responsible and make you each watch the other's punishment. "

On the one hand Tom was pleased that the boy seemed particularly competent for the job after all, because it meant that they would successfully brew it with no mishaps. After the first awkward encounter, Draco had grown more confident in ordering Tom to the potions lab to perform some task or other. In turn, after critically evaluating Draco's work the first few times, Tom had grown more confident in allowing him to do some of the menial slicing and dicing. They had forged a relatively smooth working relationship that was marred only by Draco's lingering terror that he and his father would be tortured at the slightest mistake, which was, of course, completely true.

On the other hand, Tom was disappointed, because he had gotten his hopes up a bit that he'd get to act out all of the fantasies he'd been nursing about torturing father and son together. No doubt his other self would have invented a reason to act on his thoughts, if he even bothered with a pretext at all, but Tom was unfortunately not quite that mad yet.

The bright side was that his relationship with the youngest Malfoy continued to grow, and Tom was fairly certain that he would be able to turn Draco's loyalty to himself in due time. Since spending more time in Draco's presence, he had witnessed enough tiffs between Lucius and his son to allow him to conclude that Draco's hero worship of his father was that of a child who had never had any occasion to think that his father might be fallible or that there might be someone smarter or stronger. Now that the boy was thirteen, the time seemed ripe for Tom to disabuse him of that notion.

Thus, whereas he usually all but completely tuned out the familial interactions of his hosts, on one morning near the end of the Polyjuice's brewing cycle, Tom paid attention to the disagreement between Lucius and Draco at the breakfast table.

"But I'm thirteen years old! I think I'm old enough to handle it!" cried Draco with the attitude of a boy who had not yet realized that if he had to repeat his age as proof of his maturity, then it was not really proof of his maturity at all.

"I said no, Draco. Your continued entreaties will not change my decision."

Draco glowered at his father. "Do you expect me to go back to school with nothing more than _Basic Hexes for the Busy and Vexed _under my belt? When do you expect that I'll be old enough to crack open a _useful_ book?"

"When I say so," drawled Lucius from behind his newspaper, completely unbothered, "and not a moment before."

That afternoon in the library, his son was still visibly sullen, though it had hardly affected his work earlier in the potions lab. After all, he was undoubtedly too terrified of Tom to allow their potion to suffer.

Finally, after several hours of putting up with it, Tom finished adding information from his current book to his already mountainous stack of notes and turned his attention to Draco.

"Which book has caused all of this trouble?"

Draco started in surprise, as he usually did when Tom unexpectedly broke the silence between them, and looked up at him with wide eyes.

"_A Theory of Modern Dark Arts_," he answered, a little scowl on his lips.

_Hardly modern anymore_. _It was already twenty years old when I read it_. _Still_, thought Tom, picturing the pages in his mind, _it has its uses_.

Lucius was not wrong that his son was too young for it, although Tom was sure that simply explaining why to Draco could have avoided all of this intolerable sulking. The title was appealing for anyone who was looking for a place to begin an in-depth study of the Dark Arts, but in reality following the text required quite a thorough knowledge of Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Tom had bullied one of the older Slytherins into getting it for him out of the restricted section during his first year, before any of the professors had begun agreeing to write him passes of his own, and barely thirty seconds after he'd opened it he'd been demanding that his fellow Slytherin let him borrow his Arithmancy and Ancient Runes textbooks as well.

Although Tom had taught himself the basics of those two subjects during his first term at Hogwarts, he doubted that Draco would be able to appreciate _A Theory of the Modern Dark Arts_ before at least the end of the upcoming school year.

He Summoned it from one of the upper shelves of the Malfoy library and sent it flying towards Draco, who stared in surprise between Tom and the book hovering in front of him. Then he hesitantly reached for it and, when a few seconds passed without Tom punishing him (or his father popping out of the woodwork to berate him), he opened to the first page.

It took less time than Tom had predicted before Draco, a look of mild disgust passing over his features, said, "Honestly! 'This book will attempt to explain how the complex relationship between the runic bases of the oldest Dark magic and the modern Latin usage can be simplified using the new and exciting breakthroughs in our understanding of arithmantical principles in order to seamlessly bring the most ancient of the Dark Arts into a new era,' really?"

"Abrams isn't the most concise of authors," allowed Tom, although he knew that wasn't what Draco meant.

"Not that!" cried Draco, apparently forgetting to be absolutely petrified of Tom. "Why didn't Father just tell me that this is what the book is about?"

Tom shrugged carelessly. "I do not pretend to understand why adults feel the need to assert their own dominance as if it's actually an answer to anything, rather than simply explain things to children."

Draco laughed. Tom magically took the heavy book from Draco's lap and sent it back to its place.

"Abrams' argument is incorrect, in any case," Tom explained as he shuffled through his many notes. "However, it has been accepted as true by the majority of practitioners, and that is why so many Dark wizards have trouble learning even the basics, much less creating anything new."

He thought privately to himself that this was probably how the elder Avery had managed to kill himself in a magical accident. Avery had always been brilliantly creative but without the requisite skill in Arithmancy to safely conduct the experiments he dreamed up.

"Perhaps if you can ever work out for yourself what Abrams got wrong," he continued, "then I will think about sharing some of what I know with you. No cheating, mind you; I'll know immediately if you've asked your father or grandfather to help you."

Malfoy's eyes lit up in pride and pleasure. "Oh, thank you, My Lord! I'll figure it out, I promise! Arithmancy and Ancient Runes might be boring subjects, but I'll put all of my effort into learning them if you will be my reward!"

The ghost of a smile flitted across Tom's lips at Draco's innocence in proclaiming Tom as his reward. Undoubtedly the boy had no idea at the sexual suggestion in his words and had only meant that his reward would be his lord's time and knowledge.

"It's boring to learn them at first, that's true. It's rote memorization, just like when you were memorizing your multiplication tables. However," he added, the tone of his voice taking on an excitement that had Draco leaning forward in his chair, "once you have learned the basics, an entire world of magical knowledge is at your fingertips. You can understand how and why spells work and potions ingredients interact in certain ways. It's like how after you learn multiplication, suddenly the world of division and algebra and more advanced mathematics is open to you."

Draco looked so enraptured by what he was saying that he had the rashest idea he'd had in a while. He carefully put his notes back in order after he'd removed the bit of parchment he needed. Then he glanced up and allowed his eyes to meet Draco's.

"Come here and I will give you a demonstration."

The boy came without hesitation, as if he fully trusted Tom. Even though that was what Tom wanted, he still found himself disapproving of the willingness to trust that Draco, like most children with loving and protecting parents, tended to display so easily. For all he knew, Tom was planning on experimenting on him!

Draco came to a stop in front of his chair, and Tom motioned for him to stand at his side instead. With Draco looking over his shoulder, he levitated the Gaunt ring in front of himself and spread his notes out across his lap and the arms of the chair. He waved his wand at the ring until a black shadow was visible swirling around and through it, like ink slowly seeping into parchment and spreading its stain across the page.

"It's cursed, you see?" he asked, and he sensed rather than saw Draco's affirmation. "I could analyze the effects of the curse using various methods learned across the fields of Defense, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy."

Draco's arm appeared suddenly in front of him, and he felt the boy lean close against his back in order to reach over his shoulder and point at the uppermost corner of his notes.

"That's what you've written here?"

Tom found, to his own great amusement, that he didn't much mind the littlest Malfoy being so presumptuous with his person. Or at least he didn't mind enough to curse him for it. He _had_ been encouraging the familiarity, had he not?

"Yes." He ran a long finger down the parchment, pointing out the various runic notations one by one. "This one is for death. This one wilting. Strength. Proliferation. Preservation. Pain…." He pointed to the next section of his notes. "Then I could translate the runes into their arithmantical equivalencies."

The body behind him was almost bouncing up and down in excitement, and Draco's voice was hardly any more measured. "Oh, and then you could use the Arithmancy formulas to figure out how it would all work together!"

Tom's calculations went on for almost a full eighteen inches of his small, spidery script. It had been vastly complex, and most of his efforts over the past month had been in teaching himself various advanced topics in Arithmancy that he had never learned before going into the diary.

It had been made even more complicated by the fact that his other self had apparently figured out a way to modify the usual magic using Parseltongue, and Tom had found himself having to isolate the changes and use them to try to reconstruct the Parseltongue runic alphabet that Voldemort had apparently created.

Really, he was exceptionally good, but if he'd had a smaller sample size and hadn't happened to more or less share a mind with the creator, he would never have been able to suss out even half it. Even another Parseltongue wouldn't have been able to recreate Voldemort's work, and someone who couldn't speak the language had absolutely no chance of countering the curse.

It was absolutely brilliant, and he wanted to kick himself for not having thought of casting spells in Parseltongue before.

He allowed his finger to skim over the rest of his calculations and onto his second piece of parchment. "Indeed. The next step is to use the same process, only backwards, to figure out how to produce a counter-curse, much like how one would produce an antidote in Potions. I was planning to try it now, if you would back up."

Draco leapt backwards immediately, and Tom didn't need to look over his shoulder to know that the boy's face was probably mottled with a mixture of embarrassment and terror. He spared a small smirk of sadistic pleasure, but his focus almost immediately turned to the task at hand.

It would be horrifically embarrassing if his attempt failed in front of Draco.

He raised Potter's wand and squared his shoulders, then hissed out the incantation in the serpents' language.

The effect was immediate, like a clap of thunder rolling through Tom and Draco's bodies and rattling the bookcases and all the ancient portraits hanging on the walls. The ring clattered to the floor, but the malevolent magic of the curse hovered in the air for a few seconds even after it had gone. Then it darted towards them with a seemingly sentient purpose.

Tom felt like he was greeting an old friend, but even as the magic crashed into him like a great wave he still had enough presence of mind to quickly erect a Shield Charm in front of Draco.

Then he was lost in the feeling.

Great Merlin, the _power_. The sheer power. It was beautiful.

He felt like he had cast some sort of sex spell on himself, and he felt his eyes roll back into his head as the waves of pleasure and glorious pain rolled through his entire body

When he came to, he found that he had managed to leave his chair and end up sprawled on the library floor surrounded by parchment. He had an almost painful erection.

Draco was leaning over him with eyes the size of Galleons and a mouth that had dropped open almost as wide. He reached out as if he thought to offer some kind of aid to his master, but then he hesitated and left his hands hovering in midair between them.

"You were…" He trailed off and swallowed uncomfortably, his gaze darting down to Tom's lap and then up to his half-closed eyes, then back down to the tented fabric at the front of his trousers and finally away to anything that wasn't Tom. "You were, erm… screaming."

A nearly hysterical laugh escaped Tom's throat. "Was I?"

The library doors crashed open and hit the walls on either side with a bang, and Tom turned his head in time to see all three of the older Malfoys pushing past each other trying to be the first through the opening. With a strength he hadn't known she possessed, Narcissa Malfoy shoved her much larger husband out of her way and nearly sprinted across the enormous room to gather her son up into her arms.

"Oh, my baby! You're all right!" she cried, dragging his head against her breast as if he were an infant who needed his mother's comfort. "I was so worried! There was that awful banging and the _screaming_…!"

Draco Malfoy apparently respected his mother's supposed feminine delicacy far too much to shove her away from him, no matter how much he appeared to want to. No doubt this was a result of his father treating his mother as if she were a priceless porcelain doll.

Lucius wrapped his arms around his wife and son, seemingly having no desire whatsoever to offer Draco any assistance in the matter.

"I'm _fine_," he insisted irritably. "It wasn't even me who was screaming, anyway. Ask the Dark Lord, he'll tell you."

"My Lord?" asked Abraxas, who had come to stand beside his family and place a supportive hand on his son's shoulder. His voice was as full of confusion as Lucius's expression.

Tom levered himself up onto his elbows and shifted to try to conceal his erection, although there was hardly any chance of that.

"Just a bit of curse breaking gone, uh… wrong." He reached for the ring, which had landed on the floor just beside him. "I'm curious, though. Exactly what was your plan when you came crashing in here, if I _had _been torturing the boy?"

None of the Malfoys looked like they were prepared to answer, although Narcissa shuddered and clutched her son even tighter to her breast, which produced an indignant sound from him, muffled though it was by her robes.

"I see," said Tom, although he supposed that it wasn't nearly as threatening as it ought to have been what with his voice still full of sex and a despicable dreaminess. The ring was practically vibrating with excitement in his hand, and he offered it a dreamy "Hello to you, too!" before slipping it onto his finger at long last.

Abraxas and Lucius were staring at him as if he had lost his mind. He probably had, of course.

He grinned and clambered to his feet, holding out his hand until his wand flew from wherever he'd lost it and connected with his palm. It sparked violently when he closed his fingers around it.

He had so much energy, so much _power_, flowing through him.

He wanted—no, needed—to kill something. And then to come. Not necessarily in that order. He wasn't feeling particularly picky.

Tom wordlessly left the Malfoys standing together in the library staring after him as he headed towards the front drawing room.

* * *

><p>Tom appeared… Well, he wasn't entirely sure where he'd appeared. His mind was flitting between various thought so rapidly that he was lucky he hadn't splinched himself.<p>

He snorted; as if Tom Riddle had or ever would splinch himself!

He appeared to be in a Muggle neighborhood in the city. It was dusk, and the street was nearly deserted, although lights were on in most of the buildings on either side of the street. He could see Muggles engaged in various activities within, and he wondered that they didn't feel like they were part of a zoo exhibit, being on display like that to anyone who looked into the windows.

He reached down absently to adjust his still half-hard member into a more comfortable position and started off towards the street corner. He nearly missed a step when he saw the signs proclaiming the name of the two intersecting streets, then spun around to face the direction from which he'd come.

The building at the end of the street appeared to be an office building with, from what he could make out of the signs from so far away, a dentist's office and various other businesses.

There was no orphanage.

Why had he been thinking of this place, of all the places in the world?

Tom gave himself a firm shake, not that it did much to clear the foggy quality of his thoughts. The ring was vibrating around his finger, and the power of the curse was still flowing through his veins. _Oh well_, he thought, and with a shrug he set off again down the street to see if the park where the orphans used to play was still there. It turned out that although nearly everything else had changed, the park was where it had always been, although its landscape had been altered over the years.

It appeared to be deserted this late in the evening, except, as Tom had half expected, for a pair of Muggle teenagers who were snogging quite vigorously on a picnic table.

The ring thrummed so hard that Tom's arm vibrated, and he reached down with his other hand to adjust it on his finger.

"My thoughts exactly."

The girl noticed him first, and she reared back from her partner with a little gasp of surprise. She was quite pretty, and even though Tom's interests didn't primarily lay with girls, even he had to admit that the lacy pink contraption encasing her large breasts looked very alluring. The girls he'd been with fifty years ago hadn't worn anything like that.

Her boyfriend spun around to face him, and Tom was quite pleased that he was also a very nice specimen. If it had to be Muggles, at least it was attractive ones. And it really did have to be Muggles, unfortunately, given that he wasn't at Hogwarts anymore and couldn't exactly go around doing this in wizarding villages without drawing attention to himself. Oh well, he could make do.

"Who're you?" demanded the boy angrily. "What do you think you're doing? Can't you see that we're busy?"

Tom allowed his gaze to travel over the pair. "I can see that, yes."

In the next second, the boy had collapsed on the ground in agony, his screams echoing off the trees and making lovely music in Tom's ears and bringing his erection back in full force.

"WHAT DID YOU DO!" screeched the girl. "STOP IT! MAKE IT STOP!"

"But he screams so prettily," declared Tom. "You, on the other hand, do not."

It was even easier than usual for him to cast another spell while maintaining the power on his first one. The girl stopped screeching and began undressing herself under the effects of the Imperius Curse even as her boyfriend continued to writhe and scream in the grass. She had small, dusky nipples, a trim waist, and a neat patch of dark hair at the junction between her shapely thighs. Tom took it all in as she walked calmly over to him and knelt on the ground before him. He undid his trousers, and his ring seemed to be dancing on his finger.

He released the male but immediately petrified him instead, using his magic to forcefully turn the boy's head so that he had to watch through his unblinking eyes.

Then he released the girl from the curse.

She gasped and would have flung herself backwards away from him if Tom hadn't violently curled his hand—the one with the ring—into her long brown hair. She couldn't even turn her face away from his erection.

"I want you to suck it," he informed her just as casually as if he were talking about the weather. "And if you use your teeth, I will remove them from your pretty mouth one by one. Do you understand?"

She attempted to nod in the affirmative and winced in pain as the movement ripped at the hair he was gripping. Satisfied, he released his hold. She hesitated and allowed her eyes to dart over to her unmoving boyfriend, but when Tom's hand came back up towards her head, she flinched and quickly closed the distance between them.

It felt good, of course, but she wasn't putting any effort into it at all. Tom sighed in exasperation.

"You had better make this enjoyable or else there are other things I could do to you."

Her eyes were wild and frightened, but she seemed to make the right decision. The great sobs that were wrenching her body just made it all the more pleasant for him.

Eventually, he finished with a groan.

As soon as he released her, she threw herself to the side and got sick into the grass.

"Disgusting," sneered Tom. "You do know how to ruin a moment. _Avada Kedavra_."

Her body fell forward into her own vomit. He stepped around her gingerly, as if his shoes might become contaminated just from getting too close, and headed towards the boy. He was obviously still where Tom had left him, but there were tears streaming out of his open eyes and down his frozen cheek onto the ground below him.

"I was going to let her live, you know, so that you could watch each other with me," he explained calmly, infusing his voice with pity he didn't really feel. "However, it's probably for the best that I didn't. I imagine that you would have continued to put up a fight on her behalf if you knew she still lived. Hopefully after what you've witnessed you'll be smarter than to keep resisting me."

Eyes glared up at him in defiant hatred, although the Muggle wasn't able to move a muscle.

Tom laughed, high and cold. "I see that I'm mistaken! No matter. It will make it all that much sweeter for me to have to break your spirit through more physical means."

He levitated his prisoner up so that he could grab onto one of his beefy arms, then Disapparated them away from the park and into the Malfoys' front drawing room.

Abraxas and Lucius were apparently waiting for him. They sat together on one of the green velvet sofas, staring in various degrees of surprise at the spectacle he made with his disheveled clothing and floating victim.

"Oh, don't mind me," Tom told them jovially. "I just picked myself up a little present."


	8. The Webs We Weave

**Author's Notes:** Sorry this has taken much longer than usual. I'm in the middle of exams; in fact, I had a four-hour tax exam today. It was as horrible as it sounds. (I've alleviated the pain somewhat by including a tax joke in this chapter, but it probably isn't recognizable or funny to anyone but me.) The exam period extends until the end of next week, but after that I should be back on a normal schedule.

* * *

><p>When Tom became aware of his surroundings, he was in a graveyard standing in front of a larger than life statue of the Angel of Death. The full moon illuminated its skeletal face and enormous scythe, and Tom only had to lean forward slightly to make out the names etched into the elaborate display.<p>

_Thomas Riddle. Mary Riddle._

He blinked once, but the names didn't change.

"What the hell?"

"It's terribly dreary, isn't it?" came the response from directly behind him. "Only imagine not being able to meaningfully experience anything other than this for years untold."

For a split second, Tom was convinced that he was imagining things, but then he realized exactly what was happening. He turned slowly, his movements deliberate and in no way giving away his surprise or anxiety. His own face stared back at him from a couple of a feet away, an intensity in his expression that made Tom understand from an outside perspective why people were so terrified of him.

"But of course you know how it is, even though you've managed to escape somehow," the Horcrux continued, his eyes roaming over Tom's face. "Although I imagine that being stuck at Hogwarts is immeasurably better than being stuck in this bloody Muggle graveyard."

Tom had already opened his mouth to say that actually he'd been quite able to imagine himself to any number of other locales, before he realized that this Horcrux obviously had not had that experience. That had to be important somehow, but it probably would not be a good idea to point out the difference to someone who had been stuck looking at his filthy Muggle family's graves with no real way to measure time.

Instead he filed away that information for later thought and said, "It's been fifty years, assuming that you were created soon after I was. Not quite years untold, but I know exactly what you mean."

The Horcrux's nostrils flared, and he took a step closer so that they were mere inches apart, almost touching.

"Fifty years," he hissed. "It seems longer… and shorter."

Tom felt the corner of his mouth quirk up involuntarily. "I know."

His other self brought his hand up as if to touch Tom, then stopped just short of actual contact. Their eyes met, and Tom was sure that he saw hope and desperation and madness in that gaze. He could understand that; he still felt it all himself.

He reached out with his own hand so that they met in the middle. As soon as their palms touched, the Horcrux gasped and closed his fingers hard around Tom's, as if he was afraid that Tom would pull away. Of course he had no intention of that, and likewise he didn't resist when the Horcrux closed the distance between them and all but pressed their bodies together.

"My God…" the Horcrux moaned somewhere in the vicinity of Tom's ear. "My God…"

Tom had consciously exchanged his Muggle expressions for wizard ones as soon as he had entered the magical world at age eleven. He hadn't referenced any god in years, so he knew that the Horcrux must be absolutely overwrought to have forgotten himself so thoroughly that he reverted to that terminology.

He—and Tom really must think of something to call him other than "the Horcrux," he thought—held fast to Tom's hand, but he ran his free hand over Tom's form in the same way Tom had seen concerned parents check small children over for injuries. The touch felt solid, but he was ice cold to the touch and his chest did not rise and fall with breath. Tom imagined that it must be like embracing a corpse, and it took all he had not to shiver. Only the knowledge that he had been exactly the same until he'd regained a body, and that he would have done anything or killed anyone to feel someone's touch, stopped him from pulling away.

"You're real," the Horcrux told him. "_I'm _real…. I had begun to doubt…."

"I know," repeated Tom. He brought his free hand up to clasp the Horcrux's bicep.

The Horcrux shuddered against him.

"I can feel what you do… I can _feel_ it!" A laugh erupted from his throat, crazed and uncontrolled. "Will you let me see?"

Tom could well understand his desire to actually experience things, even secondhand. Of course he knew himself, and therefore he knew that he couldn't trust this version of himself. He wasn't entirely sure that the Horcrux would actually be able to mount any sort of assault on his mind, given that he was a Horcrux himself and not an actual human being, but Tom had no doubt that he would try. All of the various variables flashed through his mind in seconds, and in the end he decided that the need to gain the Horcrux's cooperation and keep his own doubts hidden as much as possible outweighed any risks, especially since he was sure the Horcrux would want to gather information and wouldn't simply attack him the first time he was allowed into Tom's mind. He would first want to know how Tom had escaped, at the very least.

"Any preferences?"

He could feel the Horcrux's glee in his own consciousness.

"Anything."

Then they were spinning through darkness interspersed with flashes of memories, some shared between them and some new ones Tom had made for himself. The Horcrux had moved to stand beside him, but their hands remained clasped. He squeezed Tom's fingers when the memory of torturing Abraxas and Lucius in the library flashed by, and Tom focused on the scene.

It was like viewing himself in a Pensieve, and the Horcrux went to stand beside Memory Tom as the apparition threaded his hand violently through Lucius's hair. It was actually quite interesting to view the events from a third-person perspective. In the moment he hadn't been able to focus on the results of his actions, but now he stood beside the Horcrux looking down at the expression of agony that twisted Abraxas's face under the effects of Tom's childhood torture curse. His eyes were screwed shut and his jaw was clenched so as not to scream, while his hands were tensed into claws and his arms and legs were curling towards his body. Tom knew that it was the perfect result of the muscle contractions built into his curse, and the Horcrux seemed to appreciate it as much as he did.

When the torture ended, Tom guided them out of his mind and back into the graveyard. They landed on top of their father's grave, which was somehow fitting, and the Horcrux smiled.

Then Tom was blinking up at the dark green canopy of his bed in Malfoy Manor. It took him a few seconds to realize that he must have been asleep—or at least unconscious and, instead, inside the Horcrux's consciousness.

The movement that had woken him up drew his attention again. Something was in the bed with him. Tom shot up into a sitting position and immediately regretted it. He felt lightheaded and weighted down all at once, and he was only glad that he wasn't an actual human being or else he felt like he might have been sick all down his front.

Tom had never been one for drinking—his earliest experiences with alcohol had been with gin, which was prescribed by the matron of the orphanage to cure all sorts of ills. It made him associate the distinctive burn of alcohol with medicine, which rather ruined the whole effect for him. At Hogwarts he had the opportunity to indulge through the widespread black market in the Slytherin dorms, but at first he had thought that he had much better ways to spend the few Sickles and Knuts he managed to save from his scholarship allotment each year, and later, after watching his dorm mates imbibe, he had determined that being drunk would make him weak and vulnerable.

But what he was experiencing now felt like everything he had ever heard about hangovers, multiplied several times.

The Horcrux was flooding his consciousness with its fury and fear at being left alone again, which made things worse.

When he felt more in control of his body again, he turned his head and took in the form of the rather large young man who was bound face-down with his arms stretching out before him and attached to the headboard with heavy magical chains. Images of the night before flashed in his mind, brief snatches of motion and speech that flitted away before he could firmly grasp any of them. He could well fill in the blanks, however, by observing the dried blood and semen and other conspicuous materials covering the Muggle's body, particularly his lower half.

The Muggle had stopped struggling against his bonds (the movement that Tom assumed had woken him up), but he was glaring at Tom as best he could in his position. The effect was lessened by his puffy, red-rimmed eyes and the fact that he'd been magically gagged… not that his glare would have had any effect on Tom under any circumstances, of course.

Tom cast a quick glance over the magical bonds to satisfy himself that he'd managed to actually secure them in whatever state he'd been in last night, then he rolled out of bed and squished the thick carpet between his toes on his way to the palatial bathroom. He winced a bit at his tender groin when he stepped up into the shower, but the steaming water pouring across his body quickly soothed any ills, and he thought that he might even be up for another go soon.

He thought that the next time he visited the Horcrux, perhaps he would like to experience the basic luxuries of a hot shower and a warm body underneath him.

* * *

><p>The end of the week found Tom in the library chewing on the end of his quill. He had worked through every book in the Malfoys' library that could possibly be relevant to his situation, and he hadn't really found any answers. It was to be expected, he supposed, given that no one had created multiple Horcruxes before, and no Horcrux that he was aware of had ever obtained its own body.<p>

How could anyone be expected to write anything helpful about something no one except him had ever imagined in their darkest dreams?

He had thoroughly investigated Draco's memory of the curse breaking. It was probably the oddest thing he'd ever seen to witness himself thrashing around and screaming in practically orgasmic bliss and then acting like a drunken fool afterwards. But at least he had been able to conclude that his other self's magic affected him like some sort of intoxicating aphrodisiac.

It was most tempting to seek out more of it.

At the same time, Tom felt like he should do everything in his power to avoid it.

If that were the only thing he had to worry about, he might have been okay. However, the question of his own abilities and limitations as a Horcrux was extremely pressing now that he was in contact with another one, and on top of that he had about a dozen more questions after learning that the Horcrux in the ring hadn't been able to escape the graveyard.

The Malfoys' reactions to the entire episode were also quite troublesome. Tom would have had to be a fool to trust the men who had swindled the Ministry into believing that they'd never willingly associated with Lord Voldemort, and he was no fool. Now he was doubly suspicious.

As the littlest Malfoy wandered into the library, Tom decided that he would deal with that problem quite neatly. His plans for Draco and his plans for the Granger girl were both entirely within his own control, and acting on things within his own control soothed him in a way that nothing else could. His pet Muggle could testify to that.

"Ah, Draco," he said in a suitably pleased tone, "your timing is impeccable. I want to speak with you, if you have time to spare."

Ever since the incident, Draco seemed to vacillate more than ever between being comfortable around him and being terrified of him. Today he was apparently feeling the former, because at Tom's words his entire face brightened and he came to sit on the floor at Tom's feet without waiting for further invitation.

"My Lord, I always have time for you," Draco informed him in a voice full of so much earnest feeling that it made Tom's teeth ache.

Of course he knew that, both because no one around him would ever dare deny him and also because he had been diligently making strides in his Legilimency. He had only phrased the order as if it were a request to put his prey at ease by portraying himself in a kind light.

When he patted the boy's head as if he were one of Lucius's wolfhounds, Draco preened under the attention.

"Tell me, how far have you read in the books I recommended to you?"

Draco was an eager pupil, but he was not the most brilliant student Tom had ever met (even excluding himself, since it was unfair to compare anyone's intelligence to his own). Draco was naturally very good in Potions and Defense, but he was only average or perhaps a bit above in Charms and Transfiguration and had to work quite hard to master those kinds of spells. This made teaching him the Dark Arts something of a challenge, but Tom had persisted in order to gain his loyalty over that towards his father, who had refused to teach him much more than the basics that every child from a Dark family learned.

Tom suspected that Lucius had hoped his son wouldn't follow in his footsteps, and refusing to teach him Dark magic had been some sort of vain effort towards that goal. But now he appeared to view Tom as the lesser of two evils and to hope that he would be able to offer Draco some protection when Lord Voldemort returned.

"I finished them yesterday morning, My Lord," answered Draco. Then, knowing that Tom would want to hear his interpretation of what he'd learned, he added, "It's important to learn how to do magic wordlessly and, as much as possible, wandlessly, because safely performing the Dark Arts requires a lot more control over one's magic than most wizards have."

He was clearly expecting some sort of praise, but Tom was unimpressed. He raised one suspicious eyebrow. "And how much of it have you been able to apply?"

"Oh, well…" Draco blushed and looked down at his hands. "I can do some basic spells wordlessly, but I haven't been able to manage any offensive or defensive spells yet."

Over their weeks working together, Tom had managed to get Draco to move past his habit of grossly exaggerating to make himself look better. Nothing had been more effective than Tom purposefully taking Draco at his word and hexing the stuffing out of him with the expectation that he'd be able to shield himself as he'd bragged he could. Draco obviously still hated to be embarrassed by admitting that he hadn't been able to do something, but that was infinitely preferable to being hexed to bits by Tom.

Tom let out a breath of frustrated acceptance. He really wasn't suited at all to being a teacher, as he barely had even as much patience as an angry mother dragon, and he especially didn't have much patience to try to figure out ways to explain things he'd simply known intuitively since before even going to Hogwarts. He reminded himself quite firmly that it was in his own best interest—and that it was his own plan!—to claim Draco Malfoy as one of his own, not only because he would need his own followers separate from his other self's but also because if he controlled the child then he controlled the parents, no matter who they'd actually sworn loyalty to.

He turned a steely gaze back to his student and tried to decide how to articulate the feeling of being one with his magic in a way that Draco would understand.

* * *

><p>Draco would have probably been absolutely horrified, Tom reflected the next day, to know that Tom was actually looking rather more forward to dealing with the Mudblood than to spending more time with him. Being charming had always been a particularly exhausting form of hell for him, no matter how good at it he'd been (and he'd been the best). On the other hand, playing mind games was his bread and butter. He had been anticipating the Grangers girl's reaction to his offer for days, gleefully planning how he'd handle every minute variation.<p>

He was nearly grinning when he entered the little cottage, but he managed to school his face into his usual impassively handsome mask before he opened the closet. The Grangers peered out at him from the darkness, and Tom leaned casually against the doorjamb and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I have been told that you are intelligent, Mudblood," he told her, enjoying the way she jerked at his words. "Although I have not seen much evidence of it firsthand, it has occurred to me that I could put you to some use."

His Legilimency allowed him to read her defiant emotions before she even declared, "I won't help you."

Mrs. Granger flinched as if she knew exactly how stupid that was of her daughter, and Tom turned his eyes onto the older woman just for the satisfaction of seeing her cower backwards into her corner.

Tom twisted his mouth into a patronizing smile. "You already have, Mudblood. Do you not remember the information you gave me in exchange for your own well-being? If you have changed your mind, I can always—" But she had frozen at the sight of his wand, which he'd produced seemingly from thin air. His smile widened. "Ah, I see that we still understand one another."

She clambered to her feet without another word and with a decided droop to her shoulders.

Tom smirked to himself as he led her through the bedroom; her reactions were just what he had predicted.

"Now, I suspect you might even enjoy this task," he said as he entered the kitchen ahead of her, "and then you'll have quite a bit of egg on your face for that abysmal behavior earlier."

He stepped aside to reveal that the kitchen table was covered with stacks of books and unused parchment. Her eyes, which were already a bit less defiant and a bit more defeated, lit up with interest that she tried and failed to hide. He'd been more than correct that the way to Hermione Granger's heart was through books.

He waved his arm to indicate that she could approach the treasure trove. "They range from the ancient to the beginning of this century, and none of them have such luxuries as tables of contents or indexes. You're to synthesize the information in each book."

Tom really did want them indexed and catalogued for his own use, and he really didn't have the time or patience to do it himself. But having Hermione Granger do it was little more than an exercise in manipulation and fact finding. The task would make her happy and was the perfect opportunity to slowly introduce her to the world of magic beyond the levitation charms and button-to-beetle transfigurations she'd learned at Hogwarts… to introduce her to _real_ magic. Of course he'd actually already read all of the books he'd given her for this first go around, but he wouldn't tell her that. He wanted to judge the true extent of her intelligence, and to do that he had to know the subject matter at hand so he could evaluate her work.

She eyed the tomes hungrily. He knew then that he already had her, but he still had to make sure that the entire state of affairs was laid out on the table. He stepped between her and the books and fixed her with a serious gaze.

"I will allow you to remain outside of the closet even when you are not working, as long as you meet my standards."

It was unnecessary to mention that if she failed then her situation would be worse than it had ever been before. Indeed, mentioning it would have been counter to what Tom was trying to accomplish with her.

Granger bit her lip and tore her gaze from the books to bravely meet his eyes. With a defiant little tilt to her chin, she asked, "What about my parents?"

"What about them?" Tom shrugged in the truly careless manner of one who honestly had no feelings on the subject.

"I can't sit out here reading while my parents are stuck in that closet!" she exclaimed.

Tom outwardly frowned, but inwardly he was congratulating himself on having predicted her reactions so well.

"If you exceed my expectations then I might consider allowing them to join you in the bedroom, although Salazar only knows how you'll manage the sleeping arrangements with one bed." Undoubtedly they would not only manage sharing one bed but would actually welcome it, given their current living conditions. However, his apparent obliviousness to their situation made Granger visibly bite her tongue to keep from speaking, which is exactly the amusing reaction Tom had been hoping for. "However, if it turns out that your intelligence is not up to my standards, there will be no need for you to worry about them anymore."

Her eyes lit up with not a little anger and a determination to prove how he wrong he was to doubt her, but she smartly kept her comments to herself. It seemed she had learned by now that her words would mean nothing to him, but he would keep his word if her actions pleased him.

Tom watched her with an impassive mask fixed firmly on his face as she watched him weave his wand in a complex pattern by the door. Now that she was free from the closet, he had doubled the wards, just in case. Not that he thought she truly had a chance of escaping, since even if she managed to get out of the building she would still be out in the middle of nowhere without a wand. He just would prefer that she not die trying before his plans had come to fruition.

Finally, when he was done, he stepped through the door and, without bothering to look back at her, said, "Until later, Mudblood."

* * *

><p>The Horcrux was lounging across their grandfather's sarcophagus when Tom appeared in the graveyard the second time. He looked up unhurriedly, as if he couldn't be bothered with Tom's appearance, and Tom decided not to call him out on the blatant untruth of it. If acting disinterested made the Horcrux feel more in control of the situation, then that could only work in Tom's favor.<p>

"I wasn't sure you'd come back," declared the Horcrux.

Tom kept his face neutral. "I don't know why you're complaining. It's only been a day."

The Horcrux leaned back on his elbows and let his long legs sprawl out across the stone, one of his feet dangling over the edge and kicking at their grandfather's name. He scowled. "Well, I guess a day is nothing to _you_, since you have a body."

Tom only controlled his expression through sheer force of will. It was the best reply he could have hoped for—the information contained in it, that is, not the reply itself. Clearly the Horcrux did not have access to his mind or to any real sense of Tom's physical surroundings, or else he would have known that it had been a week since Tom's last visit. Tom had assumed that the Horcrux's sense of time was just as nonexistent as his had been while inside the diary, or probably even worse since he hadn't been able to directly communicate with the outside world like Tom had, but it was fantastic to have it confirmed.

His mind was his own, and that was the most important thing.

Finally allowing a slight smile to pass over his features, Tom said, "I have a present for you, but I want something from you."

"It isn't much of a gift then, is it?" asked the Horcrux. "It hardly stems from detached and disinterested generosity."

"Name one time we have done something out of generosity of any kind."

The Horcrux laughed, and Tom was struck anew with two completely relevant realizations: First, it was incredibly strange to watch someone who was as close to identical to you as it was possible to be. Even identical twins had enough differences that most people who knew them for more than a couple of days could tell them apart! Smaller eyes, facial symmetry that was slightly off, freckles in different patterns… the Horcrux and he had none of those minor differences. Second, he was truly an intimidating individual. Even his laughter was off-putting because of the hints of instability and coldness behind it.

"Fair point," replied the Horcrux as he slipped gracefully off the sarcophagus. "What's the present, and what do you want?"

Tom raised his eyebrows just the barest amount. "I want to know everything you know about the other Horcruxes. And I promise you'll love it; trust me."

His other self took in an unneeded breath and let it out harshly, his nostrils flaring. "I don't know much more than you do. I was created less than a year later."

"I don't mean the mechanics or properties of it," answered Tom. "I mean what they are and where they're hidden. Did you still plan to use objects from the Founders? Were you able to find any objects that fit the bill?"

"I had determined that Ravenclaw's diadem was a real object, just before I was made. I was close to tracking it down, I think. Did you know that the Gray Lady is Rowena Ravenclaw's daughter? Sorry, of course you didn't…." he answered his own question a second later. After an awkward pause, he added, "In any event, I think she's the key to finding the diadem."

"You hadn't pinned down any other possibilities?"

The Horcrux narrowed his eyes as if he were trying to decide whether that was an accusation. "Not anything more concrete than what you already know."

"I see…. And had you given any more thought to where they would be hidden?"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>I've been trying to strike a balance between showing conversations and avoiding giving massive info dumps about things we already know that would probably be boring to read about in any detail (e.g. what the Horcruxes are). Please let me know what you think about that or about anything else in the story, if you have a few seconds.


	9. Standby

**Author's Notes:** All exams, papers, and holidays are officially finished for me, and I have a bit of a break now so for a while I should be able to focus on writing this and my other story, _The Other Side_. I hope you all had a good holiday season and that the wait wasn't too long for this chapter!

There is sexual violence in this chapter, but it shouldn't be enough to raise it above an R rating so the versions are the same here and on AO3 and AFF.

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><p>The last official meeting before they carried out the plot at Gringotts was a tense affair for everybody involved. Lestrange clearly had a reason to be nervous, as he was the one really risking his neck, but in reality his nerves were more because of his intense fear of displeasing Tom than any worry for himself. Tom attributed Abraxas's nerves to worry over whether the goblins would keep their end of the deal, which was never a sure bet. Lucius was right to be worried, since his neck was on the line on two separate fronts, the goblins and the Polyjuice Potion.<p>

No doubt Mulciber, who didn't actually have any personal stake in this operation, was so jumpy just because it was obvious that Tom himself was operating with a hair trigger.

Tom turned his head abruptly to meet Mulciber's frightened eyes, and the man flinched and was unable to hold his stare for more than a few seconds before he dropped his gaze to his lap.

"But you must feel left out of these proceedings, Mulciber, since you've nothing to contribute," said Tom in his own imitation of the low, sibulant voice his other self had used in Abraxas's memory. "Why don't you tell us if you have anything useful to add?"

Tom was half hoping that Mulciber wouldn't have anything interesting to say, because he was itching to torture something. This usually turned out to be the case, because Mulciber's somewhat low administrative position at Saint Mungo's (after having lost his position in the Ministry when his son was caught as a Death Eater) didn't afford him much access to information that Tom would find useful. This time, however, the man perked up at the opportunity, and Tom suspected that he wouldn't be able to torture him after all.

"My Lord, paperwork came across my desk only this afternoon indicating that Molly Weasley is a serious case for one of the Mind Healers."

It took Tom several seconds to piece together why exactly he should care about the state of this Molly Weasley's mind, but then he determined that she must be the mother of the Weasley brats he'd disposed of. Little Ginny had only ever referred to her mother as "Mum," but why else would Mulciber bring it up? The whole thing brought a cruel smirk to his lips as he recalled thinking in the Chamber that he would never spare another thought for little Ginny after she was out of his sight. It seemed he had proven himself correct, at least until someone else brought her up.

His followers had all sat back further in their seats at the twist of lips, as if to get as far away from him as possible, which only made Tom's smirk deepen.

"The Healer is petitioning the hospital to be allowed to treat her free of charge for the indefinite future," Mulciber rushed on, eager to tell all of his news before Tom could decide how to react. "The hospital takes on such charity cases in serious circumstances. The Healer's professional opinion is that Mrs. Weasley might present a danger to herself or others without proper treatment, but the Weasleys have exhausted their ability to pay."

Lucius couldn't suppress a snicker. "Now that you mention it, I _had_ heard from my friends in the DMLE that Weasley returned from bereavement leave as soon as the period of paid leave expired, even though Bones told him that he was free to take as much additional time as he needed. No doubt he couldn't take any unpaid time off without his remaining children starving to death."

His colleagues joined in on his laughter.

"It's very amusing news," Tom broke in, and all of them immediately quieted down as if they had never been laughing at all, "but what use is it to me?"

It was rather a rhetorical question only intended to make them refocus on what was important. In fact, Tom's mind had begun spinning with possibilities as soon as he'd heard the news.

However, Lucius apparently took it as a genuine inquiry, because he, always eager to make life harder for Arthur Weasley, immediately said, "My Lord, if I may, I suggest that we could achieve several objectives at once here. If everyone were to think that you are actively targeting the Weasleys…"

Tom had been thinking the same thing. A malicious smile curved over the handsome lines of his face. "Yes, that would certainly distract Dumbledore and send Potter into a tailspin. And it seems that such a threat might send Molly Weasley into a complete mental breakdown, if she isn't there yet."

"I will find out the details of her condition," added Mulciber. "I should be able to get my hands on all of the Healer's records on Monday."

Tom nodded. "Good. Lucius, you will give your house-elf _very clear_ instructions about what to tell—and _not_ tell—Potter."

* * *

><p>The next day, Saturday, was absolute hell for Tom. Yesterday he'd been able to distract himself with the final preparations for today, but now all that was left was the waiting. He absolutely despised waiting for other people to carry out his plans, both because he hated waiting itself and because he hated not being in control.<p>

And he couldn't distract himself by waiting around. Tom's mind refused to focus on anything besides what the Horcrux had told him about the hiding places. Places that represent something important about his past, he'd said. Places that represent something important about his place in the magical world.

Tom leaned back into his thick down pillows and closed his eyes to better recall the Horcrux's exact words about its own creation.

"What better place to create me than here, on our father's grave? There's something incredibly poetic about it all," he'd said, eyes gleaming with pride and more madness than even Tom was entirely comfortable seeing. "You were created in the same place where your soul was split to make your creation possible, although it wasn't planned that way for you, of course. I decided to carry it on after you were created."

Tom had arranged his expression into one of interest. "And since you were going to use our father's death to create the next Horcrux, you had to do it here. Why here, though, and not up at the house?"

The Horcrux grinned. "It was also about what this place _means_…. Hogwarts was our first home in the magical world, the place where we began our education, and the place where we made our first kill. The other locations have to be just as significant. I might have killed our father up at the house, but the house itself has no significance. This village is what's important: the house, this graveyard, the hovel where our mother grew up. This is the final resting place of the last Tom Riddle, the place where his legacy ends…. And I just liked dancing on his grave."

Tom opened his eyes and stared up at the canopy, having been able to reach no conclusion other than the one he'd already made.

It was all madness. Horcruxes were meant to be hidden—protected!—where nobody could find them!

Of course Tom understood the need for grand gestures—Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes could be nothing short of exceptional, just like he was—but that's why he had chosen the Founders' artifacts as his remaining containers. The diary had a purpose, and furthermore it represented his mind and thoughts. The ring was a representation of his heritage, his ancient, pure bloodline dating back to Salazar himself. The remaining four were grand symbols of the wizarding world, representations of Tom's rightful place and his eventual dominion over magical society.

But hiding Horcruxes in places intrinsically connected to himself was just sheer stupidity!

It was a good thing he came along when he did, or else surely his other self would have been defeated eventually because of his utter madness. Tom was considering now whether it was even worth it to bring the man back, if he was that insane. He would definitely have to take things even more carefully than he'd been planning to before. Perhaps if he could just use the Horcruxes' knowledge instead… but no, he would have to deal with his other self somehow, since his continued existence meant that his other self could never be disposed of….

First he needed to find the rest of the Horcruxes. His own placement was irrelevant because he'd had a purpose the later Horcruxes hadn't, so the ring's placement in the Gaunt shack and the cup's placement in Gringotts were the only clues he had. Little Hangleton was significant because it was everything about his heritage, the good and the bad, all rolled into one otherwise insignificant speck on the map. There were any number of things about Gringotts that might have seemed important to his other self, but he couldn't guess which one or more of them had actually been important in Voldemort's insane mind.

The Horcrux in the ring hadn't known much about it, as he had only had the beginnings of plans when he was created. Tom would have to wait until he had the cup in order to know more.

Tom hated waiting!

He rolled off his bed and crossed the room to the unobtrusive door nearly hidden in the wall paneling. It led to a relatively large room, though much smaller than his bedroom, that had originally been intended as a dressing room when his suite had been built anticipating a royal visit, before the Statute of Secrecy had passed. There was enough room for a large bed and plenty of toys.

His Muggle was huddled on the floor, which was amusing for Tom. He had an exceptionally comfortable bed, but apparently he refused to go anywhere near it unless Tom forced him to.

"Up," he ordered.

The Muggle flinched and pressed his naked, trembling body further into his corner, but there was still fire in his eyes when Tom forced him up. That was good; Tom smiled, showing the boy his white teeth.

"You know, darling, you seem unhappy," Tom said, his voice a smooth mixture of intimacy and mockery. His prick stirred with interest at the flash of disgust and anger in the Muggle's eyes. "Perhaps I ought to have taken your wishes into consideration. I'll tell you what: You can choose which spells I use today."

The Muggle finally turned his eyes upwards to stare at Tom with the horror of one who had comprehended that he was looking at a monster. Tom smiled back.

"Don't be shy about telling me what you like best. The Cruciatus Curse? The Blood Boiling Curse?" He leaned in so that his lips brushed against the Muggle's ear and his breath ruffled the curly hair. "How about my curse, do you like that one?"

The boy slammed himself sideways then, and Tom registered the feel of soft hair against his skin just before the pain. He stumbled backwards, his hand automatically coming up to cradle his nose, and watched the Muggle scramble for the door.

He couldn't get out, of course, with the locking spells on the door. Still, Tom let his magic lash out violently. The boy's cry of surprise and pain was cut off abruptly, his breath knocked out of his lungs as he was slammed up against the wood. Tom half considered either letting the magic crush him against the solid oak or allowing him to crumple into a heap on the floor, but he settled for a happy medium. As Tom straightened himself out and took an unsteady step towards the Muggle, the boy kicked his feet wildly in midair as he searched for purchase against the smooth door, and he clutched desperately at his throat as if he could somehow release the collar of magic that was supporting his entire body.

"You filthy Muggle," hissed Tom, his voice an unpleasant mixture between English and Parseltongue, "you dare to strike _me_?"

His prisoner's eyes were wide open and rolling frantically in panic as he failed to draw breath. Tom watched in satisfaction as his nails tore gashes in his own throat in his attempts to free himself. Finally, he turned wild, pleading eyes to Tom's.

Tom brought up an elegant hand to collect the trickle of blood that had leaked out of his tender nose. He examined the blood with glowing eyes, then turned his fingers for the boy's inspection. "You expect me to help you now, after you have drawn my blood? _My_ blood?"

The tears that streamed down the Muggle's face did nothing to persuade his captor, but Tom was interested in something else. He stepped closer, trailing his wand down the side of his prisoner's face and across his jawline.

"Will you submit to me willingly, if I let you live? Will you submit to whatever I want, no matter what it is?"

The Muggle hesitated for the barest second, but then he nodded. His face was beginning to turn a horrendous shade of burgundy by then, so Tom had expected that response. The real test would come when he was actually faced with Tom's demands when his life wasn't about to be snuffed out. The thought made Tom smile in anticipation.

He dropped the boy with a mere thought, allowing him to fall to the ground in a heap. He wheezed and gasped, but Tom was uninterested in his struggles. He undid the fastenings of his trousers in one smooth movement and moved back to the center of the small space so that the boy would have to come to him.

"Prove yourself, Muggle," demanded Tom, with a lewd gesture towards his exposed privates. There was no need to add that he meant now, as the tone of his voice brooked no opposition. Indeed, the Muggle half shuffled and half crawled towards him even as he continued to gasp for breath, and with only the briefest grimace of disgust he brought his mouth to Tom's member.

Tom hadn't ever allowed him to do this before, as he hadn't trusted that the boy wasn't stupid enough to bite at the first opportunity. Now he judged that a true brush with death would have tamed that spark of defiance and idiocy just enough to make this safe, at least for the rest of the day.

As the Muggle gagged and choked around him, Tom let his head fall back and thought about everything else he wanted to do. Images of blood and sweat and cum danced through his mind, and he wondered how far his little pet's resolve would let him push.

In any event, he would be well and truly distracted from all the waiting.

Abruptly, he used his long fingers twisted in the Muggle's hair to pull him off his cock and drag him upwards until he was standing awkwardly before Tom, wincing in pain. Tom shoved him face down onto the bed, and before the Muggle could react, he'd hit him with a Cruciatus Curse. The writhing and screaming did a bit to dissipate Tom's anger and boredom, but not a lot.

He ended the curse just as suddenly as he'd started it, leaving his toy crying and shaking on the bed.

"I suggest that you stay still," Tom told him as he dragged the tip of his wand down the boy's flank and across his trembling buttocks, "because I'm not going to stop if you move. It'll just make it worse."

He gave the shaking boy a moment to process that, not out of kindness but rather to allow him to imagine the worst. Then he brought his wand up to the soft skin of the boy's side and silently cast a cutting charm.

* * *

><p>It was taking too long. The hot shower that was usually a relief to him hadn't done any good at all. Well, except for actually cleaning him, which it did quite well, as evidenced by all of the blood that had swirled around the marble and down the drain. Torturing his Muggle had been fun for a while, but nothing could fix the fact that Malfoy and Lestrange should have been back hours ago.<p>

He was just stepping out of the shower when Abraxas burst into his bedroom, a clearly panicked Lucius right on his heels. Tom only had to take one look at them through the open bathroom door before he had brought them to their knees with the sheer force of his rage.

"What happened?"

"Please, My Lo—" began Lucius, but a glare from Tom, even completely nude and dripping as he was, stopped his plea short.

His father, who actually had the answers, quickly filled the silence. "My Lord, the Aurors… Lestrange…"

He seemed unable to articulate his thoughts into anymore coherence than that, but Tom could well fill in the blanks. Both Malfoys cried out as his fury washed painfully over them.

"How?" he hissed.

"The—the potion, My Lord!" gasped Abraxas. "It had to be that! I was speaking to the goblin when I heard the commotion, and when I looked back Lestrange was himself again. I've spent the rest of the day at the Ministry, but I managed to convince them that Lestrange had blackmailed me and I had been planning to ask for their help as soon as my family was safe."

A deadly calm settled over Tom's mind, and his followers both cried out with relief as his magic uncurled itself from their bodies. He sucked in a deep breath full of hot steam and took his time putting on a thick robe he Summoned from his wardrobe. By the time he had completed the task, he had settled his thoughts enough to deal intelligently with the situation.

Tom turned steely gaze on the elder Malfoy. "So I made a mistake with the potion?"

Abraxas bowed his head. "No, My Lord, I'm sure that you could never have made a mistake. I suppose that I must admit, to my shame, that it was my grandson's error."

Lucius let out a low moan of distress, and Tom turned cold eyes and an even colder smile on him. "It seems, Lucius, that you never shared the details of our arrangement with your father."

"Master, I beg you! Please, please take me instead! I will take his punishment on top of my own!" he pleaded, bowing so low that his forehead touched the damp floor and his hair fell from its normally neat tie and spread out around him.

Tom watched impassively as Lucius prostrated himself and his father seemed to realize that the situation was more serious than he had originally considered. Tom supposed that Abraxas had known that blaming Draco would earn the boy a punishment—would earn all of them a punishment—but he had thought it would be manageable. Indeed, it was more than clear now that he had utterly underestimated Tom in more ways than one.

"What was it that I said when I agreed to take Draco on, Lucius?" asked Tom coolly. "Ah, yes, I remember! That I would hold you both fully and equally responsible and force you each to watch as I torture the other."

Lucius moaned again, and Abraxas stared between them in growing terror. If Tom hadn't been so focused on his goal, he undoubtedly would have taken a full measure of sadistic pleasure in watching the eldest Malfoy realize his error.

A snap of his fingers produced a house-elf. "Bring Draco to me."

The order had the expected result on both of the Malfoys, but Tom ignored their begging as he brushed past them and, finally, into the bedroom. His temper was hanging on a thread, and if he allowed himself to react then he would obliterate Abraxas Malfoy on the spot.

When Draco appeared in the doorway, he looked around the room in shock and not a little fear. Tom was sure they made quite a sight, him in a dressing robe with the elder Malfoys practically licking the floor at his feet. He held out his hand, and Draco warily but readily came to him, allowing Tom to wrap his wand arm around his shoulders with such trust that surely his father and grandfather would have been horrified by it even under the best of circumstances. Tom allowed his wand to hang casually down across Draco's chest, where it would surely cause him some harm if Tom lost his temper and his magic sparked. This was not lost on either of the elder Malfoys, though Draco himself seemed not to think anything of it.

"It seems that our potion failed," he told the boy, a hard edge to his voice that didn't quite allow it to be as casual as he'd hoped. "Your grandfather has been quick to blame you for the mistake."

Draco's jaw dropped open. "_What_? No!"

Tom smirked at Lucius and Abraxas from over Draco's head. "No? So you're saying it was my mistake, then?"

"No!" cried Draco. "I'm saying that there was no mistake! It was perfect! You _know_ that!"

"Really?" he asked coldly. "Tell me, Draco, if the potion was perfect, then why was Lestrange exposed in the middle of the Gringotts lobby, before the Polyjuice ought to have worn off?"

Draco's mouth worked for a few moments before he found his voice. "It—it must have been… tampered with."

He was so upset that he had forgotten to add his customary "My Lord" to his declarations, but Tom didn't mind. The boy had reacted exactly as he'd hoped, and his father and grandfather had, in turn, reacted to Draco's words exactly as he'd anticipated. Lucius appeared caught between hope and horror, and Abraxas's carefully constructed mental walls shifted in his fear and regret. The shift was just the minutest amount, but it was enough for Tom to attack the weak point and work his mental fingers into the resulting crack.

He couldn't make out Malfoy's exact thoughts, not unless he had direct access and was willing to destroy the man's mind, but he had advanced enough to be able to make out the generalities.

Tom bit back a curse and subtly pointed the tip of his wand away from Draco's chest, just in case.

"Indeed, that is what I think as well," he finally said, turning his flashing eyes to Abraxas. "The real question is who would have dared to tamper with it."

Abraxas's face remained completely impassive, which was probably more of a giveaway than if he'd tried to act offended at the accusation. Honestly, Tom had to wonder sometimes about peoples' inability to lie believably. He'd learned very quickly as a child that there was a fine balance between acting unworried and acting offended, and too much on either side would advertise guilt. With the exception of a few panicked, fearful reactions that he hadn't yet learned to control as a child (His first meeting with Dumbledore came immediately to mind, which did not improve his mood at all.), he had always carefully tailored his reactions to what people expected, to great effect.

On the other hand, Lucius was staring at his father with his mouth agape, utterly unable to control his reaction.

"Father…" he began, then trailed off, his voice a rather tragic mixture of disbelief and anger.

Tom felt Draco shake his head in denial from where the boy was resting against his side, and he looked down in time to meet wide gray eyes. "No, Grandfather wouldn't… He wouldn't!"

"Oh, but he would. He thinks that loyalty to my other self means that he must thwart my plans, and by tampering with the potion he could simultaneously ruin my chances of retrieving what I need from the Lestrange vault and get rid of someone more loyal to me than to my other self."

Most of it had been an educated guess, but he could tell by the spark of steely defiance in Abraxas's eyes that he was right on the money. They glared at each other with pure hatred until Lucius broke in, his voice shattered.

"No… But why would you—" He cut himself off with a nervous glance in Tom's direction, then apparently decided that asking his question was worth the risk of drawing his master's ire. "Why would you risk Draco? My son…" He was on his feet suddenly, glaring down at his father with as much fury as Tom had ever seen him direct towards anyone. "He's _my son_! How dare you use him in your mad scheme! How dare you!"

Abraxas looked contrite. "Lucius… I did not know. I thought that we would all be punished but nothing more than we could endure, than what we have endured before—"

"DRACO HAS NEVER ENDURED IT!" roared Lucius, cutting off wherever Abraxas had been heading with his explanation.

His father pinned him with a glare that had undoubtedly been used to cow his son since infancy. "You are the one who offered your son to Tom Riddle, not me. You are the one who agreed to the terms, not me."

"You're the one who sabotaged his work!" retorted Lucius. "The issue of punishment would not even be on the table if you hadn't done that! The scale of punishment is irrelevant—I can't believe that you willingly set him up for _any_ punishment!"

Abraxas pursed his lips into a harsh line, the so familiar pure-blood hauteur coming over his face. "He will have to endure torture sooner or later. If he had to suffer sooner—if we all had to suffer—in order to remain loyal to our lord, I judged it well worth the price."

Tom had heard more than enough to learn all he wanted to know. Abraxas, unaware of the terrible scope of the threat Tom had put over Lucius and Draco's heads when he had accepted the boy's help, had acted to sabotage him out of loyalty to his other self. And he had acted alone, no doubt because he knew that his son would never have agreed to go through with anything that would have put his own son directly in harm's way. Whether Lucius would have agreed to sabotage him if Draco hadn't been in the picture, Tom didn't know.

As he felt Draco tremble against his side, he judged that it was irrelevant at this point—Draco was his now, and it was far too late for his father to do anything to change that.

"Did you really think I would accept that our work was faulty? That I wouldn't figure it out?" he asked somewhat incredulously. "Apparently you are so blinded by the insanity of Lord Voldemort that you have underestimated my intelligence. I would kill you for that insult even if I weren't going to kill you for your betrayal."

Draco gasped and wrenched himself from underneath Tom's arm, going instead to his father's embrace. It was the most physical affection Tom had ever seen the littlest Malfoy willingly display; apparently the situation was enough to override his teenage independence. Lucius closed his eyes tightly for a few long moments before he turned a pleading gaze on Tom.

"Please, My Lord, if you would… Please spare my son from having to see his grandfather…" He trailed off with a choked sound, apparently unable to finish the sentence aloud, no matter what his father had done or how angry he was about it.

He would normally be furious at any request coming from someone with so little bargaining power in the situation, but in this case Tom had to acknowledge, if only to himself, that murdering Abraxas Malfoy in front of his grandson would probably damage the relationship he was building with the boy. Fortunately he wasn't planning on murdering Abraxas just yet anyway, so he was spared having to balance those varying concerns.

"Tell me, Lucius, do you need your father's approval to maintain your various interests, so long as he lives?"

Lucius stared at him in confusion for long enough that Tom had to say his name sharply. Then he seemed to snap out of his stupor. He explained, "Er, no, My Lord. He turned over most of the day-to-day operations to me years ago. His approval is only needed for major decisions."

"Fantastic," said Tom, although the tone of his voice didn't sound excited at all. He spoke to Lucius as if Abraxas wasn't even in the room. "Your father will be imprisoned here until further notice. If he wants so badly to help Lord Voldemort, then he will be glad to know that his body and soul will be donated to that cause when the time is right. In the meantime, he is already dead to you and your family. Am I understood?"

Lucius stroked his hand through his son's hair, pulling Draco further against him. He let out a shaky breath and determinedly refused to look down at his father.

"Yes, My Lord."

It was the work of a moment to bind Abraxas and toss him into the room with Tom's pet Muggle. Tom smirked a bit at how furious the man would be about that, but he'd brought his expression under control by the time he'd turned back around to face Lucius and Draco.

"Malfoy, find out everything you can about what your father has said to the Ministry, and what has happened to Lestrange. Draco, I want your report about what he did to the Polyjuice Potion by the end of the week. And someone tell Mulciber that I want answers on Monday and not a day later, or he'll find himself hogtied with Abraxas."

He spun away and opened his wardrobe. The Malfoys recognized the clear dismissal for what it was and quickly left him alone. Tom finally let out the breath he'd seemed to be holding in along with his rage, but he quickly reined it all back in as well as he could. There was absolutely no room for impulsivity, especially not now that he was short one Horcrux and two followers. He dressed quickly, intent on going to the library to continue working towards figuring out where else Voldemort would have put Horcruxes.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>I hope it was worth the wait. I appreciate all of the reviews, favorites, and follows more than I can say. If I haven't responded to your review yet (for signed on reviewers), I will soon.


	10. The Dementor's Kiss

Granger did an awful job of hiding her dismay. She was all wringing hands and worried eyes, and when Tom entered the little cabin she spoke up immediately.

"The book is wrong; I only recorded what it said."

Tom paused for a fraction of a second. It was the first time she had ever addressed him willingly, without him first having to threaten her in some way to gain her cooperation. Then his eyes traveled curiously past his frazzled archivist and to the table behind her. She had reorganized his deliberately haphazard stacks, somewhat surprisingly in more or less the same way he would have done it himself had he not been tricking her into believing he had no idea what they were about. He could tell even from across the room which category of books she'd been working on.

"You ca—" began Granger, then cut herself off abruptly before she said that he couldn't do something. After a moment's hesitation, she continued, "You'll read the books yourself before assuming that I did a poor job, won't you? It isn't my fault if the authors are wrong."

He had pondered how Granger would react to her views—rather, the Hogwarts curriculum—being challenged, but this was more than even he had anticipated. Tom had always been skeptical of what he was told and had never accepted his textbooks and professors at their words. He had always considered it the single positive attribute he'd brought with him from the Muggle orphanage, because he had quickly learned that children who had been raised in the wizarding world tended to accept conventional wisdom and lists of magical rules at face value without question.

Tom had expected Granger to be more like him, since she had been raised by Muggles. He had certainly not expected such blind faith in authority.

The only change in his expression was a flicker that passed through his eyes so quickly that Granger was left wondering if she'd seen it at all. He reached out to smoothly pluck her notes from midair where he'd Summoned them and made a show of scanning the rows of her small, neat handwriting, then he turned to her with a perfectly arched brow.

"What makes you think the author is incorrect?"

She spluttered for a moment, and when she finally spoke her already-annoying voice rose higher with each word. "The first exception to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration clearly states —"

"I asked for your thoughts, not for you to regurgitate Gamp's Law at me," he cut her off, quite enjoying the way she gaped at him in astonishment and not a little anger.

"What else can I do except state the facts?" she asked, and Tom was genuinely disappointed in her unimaginativeness. "If it were possible to conjure food from thin air, then someone would have done it and it wouldn't be one of the exceptions!"

Tom allowed an amused smile to flit across his face. "Are the exceptions laws describing the limits of magic itself, or are they statements describing the limits of wizards' minds?"

Granger gaped at him quite unattractively. "They're laws about the limits of magic, of course! You can't honestly believe that if a wizard were simply more intelligent he could create food from nothing!"

"Most transfigurations are accomplished by pure magic guided by sheer force of will. The average wizard doesn't seriously consider the molecular properties of wood versus metal when he transfigures a match into a needle, as the author suggests," he began with a shrug. "That is why most transfigurations are rarely as good as the real thing and often can't stand up for very long to any real attempt to use the objects. But if one _did_ know the exact molecular properties and concentrated on transfiguring the match on a molecular level instead of just imagining the superficial idea of a needle…"

He trailed off with a challenging look in her direction, while she stared at him in a mixture of astonishment and a clear determination to prove her point.

"No," she insisted rather forcefully. "If it were that simple, then food wouldn't be considered the first principle exception to Gamp's Law. This—this _book_"—she said the word as if it caused her great pain to grant the text such a label—"would be required reading, if it were true. It would be a revolutionary breakthrough!"

Tom laughed grimly. "There probably isn't even one wizard in a thousand who could define the term 'molecule,' much less who has any idea about the different chemical structures of things. The fact that there hasn't been a wizard with both the scientific knowledge and magical capability to actually accomplish it doesn't mean it can't be done."

"Then you're just arguing hypotheticals! You don't seriously claim to have done it yourself!"

He shrugged one shoulder lazily. "I'll get around to experimenting with food eventually, when I have the time. Taking over the world is a full-time job, you know, and hardly leaves time for studying anything else." He also rather suspected that his few years of scientific education, which had been quite lacking even compared to his more fortunate Muggle contemporaries, was woefully outdated these fifty years later. "But I've no reason to think the exception is actually a limitation of magic itself, since I have already broken the fourth exception."

"You can't have!" she exclaimed. "I tried duplicating money myself and—"

Tom's sharp eyes cut to her at that, and she immediately stopped talking.

"You are calling me a liar because _your_ meager attempts failed?" he demanded, caught somewhere between anger and amusement.

She stared at him with wide brown eyes, clearly having realized only at that moment how much she had been pushing him, how much freedom he had been allowing her to challenge him before she'd crossed that line. Tom shook off the remnants of his anger with a deep breath and a flex of his fingers so that he might more clearly feel the Horcrux's energy mingling with his own. Then he schooled his face back into handsome impassivity and stared at her coolly.

"I suggest, Mudblood, that you attempt to apply your not inconsiderable mind to having a bit more imagination. I've no use for someone who is incapable of thinking for herself."

Indeed, if there were but one good thing Tom could say about Draco, it would be that he was an imaginative little prat. Sometimes too imaginative, truth be told, but Tom was convinced that by the time the boy was old enough to be of any real use he would have managed to mold his little Malfoy mind into something worthwhile. He had left Granger standing there with an impossibly hurt look on her Mudblood face only to be met with Draco's eager face almost as soon as he'd set foot back in the manor.

"My Lord, I think I figured it out!" he exclaimed from the top of the grand staircase as Tom was walking across the entrance hall from the front drawing room. He took the steps down two at a time, triumphantly holding aloft a bundle of parchment almost as thick as his own forearm.

Tom stood half ready to cast a Levitation Charm should the boy fall headlong down the marble steps. As soon as Draco was close enough that Tom could be heard without yelling across the entrance hall, he asked, "Did you have a house-elf waiting to inform you as soon as I returned?"

"What?" replied Draco, clearly startled at having his train of thought interrupted. Then, "Yes, of course, but look!"

There were suddenly several long pieces of parchment floating open in front of his face, and Draco stood beside him pointing at the last line of a series of complicated equations and chattering away. Tom thought that perhaps it was time to redraw the line for the acceptable level of familiarity for Draco to have with him. On the other hand, Malfoy was such a sensitive, spoiled little git that he doubted he'd get anywhere near the level of productivity out of the boy were he to be harsh and cold towards him.

"This is almost correct," Tom finally said, forestalling Draco's longwinded explanation. "You're right that he added additional boomslang skin after we had left the potion to simmer after the first step of the second part of the brewing cycle, but you've miscalculated the amount."

Draco stared at him. "How did you check my work so quic—You already knew the answer!"

Tom flicked his fingers vaguely in Draco's direction to silence him. "Of course I did. Look here where you've assigned a value of nine to the boomslang skin. It should really be somewhere around seven point three, but I suspect that you were unable to find the correct value listed anywhere and tried to derive it yourself using some known value." He mentally reversed the calculation Draco would have used to derive the value, and a few seconds later corrected himself, "From the value of Ashwinder skin. Of course, with your limited knowledge, you could not properly account for all of the differences between the two."

"You aren't mad that it's not correct?" ventured Draco.

"Actually, I did not expect you to get this far. I had anticipated that you would stop after you determined that the culprit was boomslang skin and pinned down the timing."

It occurred to Tom after he'd stopped speaking that perhaps Draco would desire some more explicit praise than that, perhaps something more along the lines of being told that he had done very well and gotten surprisingly close to the correct answer for someone who hadn't even begun the relevant classes at Hogwarts yet. But Draco had clearly read that implication into what he'd already said, because he was smiling widely. Tom reached out a tendril of magic to scan Draco's thoughts and quickly learned that his young follower had been teaching himself Ancient Runes and Arithmancy since their discussion in the library all those weeks ago, so eager was he to impress Tom.

"Can I ask you something, My Lord?"

Tom was amused that Draco would think to ask permission now after he'd taken so many liberties earlier, but he waved him on without commenting on it.

Draco carefully rolled up his parchments, eyeing his work much more closely than necessary and avoiding looking at Tom. "Why did you assign me this task if you were going to do it yourself anyway?"

"I wanted to see if you could do it." The answer really was that simple. He added, "But I hardly went through the whole process myself. I simply looked in your grandfather's mind for the answer."

In fact, he had invaded Abraxas's mind for more information than that, and _that_ process had been quite painful for Malfoy. He had cooperated somewhat after Tom had assured him that his mental wellbeing wasn't at all necessary for what Tom had planned for him, of course.

Draco had already bowed his head low and turned to go back up the stairs when Tom called him back.

"As it happens, I did do the calculations for the precise amounts of boomslang skin myself." He wasn't yet a good enough Legilimens to have ferreted out such precise information, even when he'd had direct eye contact and no concerns about breaking Malfoy's mind. "You can find them on my customary table in the library. Top row of parchment, second stack from the right. Do replace my original back where you find it."

It was both a reward and another test. From the way Malfoy's eyes lit up and he smiled brilliantly at Tom before rushing back down the stairs towards the library, Tom knew that the boy really was thrilled at the opportunity. He could appreciate that thirst for knowledge. And the next time he was in the library, he would know whether Malfoy had the gall to look at his other papers.

* * *

><p>The second meeting after the failed attempt on Gringotts wasn't any less terrifying for Lucius and Mulciber than the first had been. Tom knew that he was significantly less likely now that he'd had another week to calm down to hold Mulciber under the Cruciatus Curse for five minutes straight merely because his information was boring, or to blow up Lucius's glass while he was holding it because he looked too much like his father when he tilted his head a certain way, but neither Mulciber nor Malfoy knew that.<p>

They were still holding meetings in Abraxas's study, except now it was _Tom's_ study. Lucius had been visibly put out at that—no doubt he'd been waiting literally years to move into the room—but Tom had decided quite abruptly that he was no longer a schoolboy to be skulking about in the library. He was Lord Voldemort, more or less, and if he wanted the master's study he would take it.

"Lestrange is extremely lucky at your timing, My Lord," Lucius was saying. "If he'd been caught now instead of last week, he'd almost certainly have been Kissed."

Tom could not but agree. He looked up from the _Daily Prophet_ he'd spread across Abraxas's desk, although he could still see the moving photograph and the headline screaming up at him as he looked at his remaining followers—ESCAPE FROM AZAKABAN!

"Indeed, this Fudge seems like he wouldn't be capable of reacting within reason if he actually tried."

Lucius nodded once in acknowledge. "Yes, My Lord, he is little more than a fool. He is understandably eager for any news that could distract the public from the Ministry's catastrophic failure here, and he is sure that publicly disposing of one recently captured Death Eater would make up in some way for them having lost another one. If the Head of the Department were anyone less formidable and popular than Bones, Fudge would likely have had Lestrange Kissed in the middle of the Ministry atrium today, notwithstanding the fact that he's already been legally sentenced to Azkaban."

"The apprentice Healer I have under the Imperius Curse told me that Molly Weasley had an emergency appointment this morning," added Mulciber. "She is convinced that the information Malfoy's house-elf passed on about you going after her remaining children is directly related to Black's escape. She insists that her children will not be allowed to go back to Hogwarts this year, and she nearly took Arthur's head off when he intervened in the argument that caused between her and one of her sons. Apparently she has one of those magical clocks that shows you were where family members are instead of telling time, and she's taken to carting it around with her everywhere, even out in public."

Lucius snorted. "I wonder if she would feel any more secure if she knew that there will be Dementors stationed at the school. I had no choice but to agree with Fudge or he undoubtedly would have done everything in his power to replace me as head governor with someone more willing, but I admit that I am considering keeping Draco out of Hogwarts."

"Draco will be going to Hogwarts," stated Tom.

His tone was mild, but his eyes were hard, and Lucius could clearly see that arguing would not do any good. He visibly swallowed and lowered his eyes in acceptance.

"Yes, My Lord."

Feeling no need to acknowledge the subject further, Tom began on the various questions he had regarding Black. "From what you two know of him, what is Black likely to do? I would like to intercept him as soon as possible so that I can either bring him into the fold or, if his mind proves unsalvageable, put him down before he becomes even more of a liability."

Malfoy and Mulciber looked at each other uncomfortably. Tom was getting quite impatient with their silent conversation by the time they seemed to reach an agreement and Mulciber turned back towards him to speak.

"My Lord, I beg you will forgive us, but we truly have no information about Black. As far as we know, you… _He…_ is the only person who ever knew who his spy in the Order was."

Tom raised his eyebrows. "Spy?"

Despite having tried to pass the buck to Mulciber, Lucius was unable to keep his mouth shut. He rolled his eyes in exasperation at his fellow's inadequate explanation. "Black was the first of his family sorted into Gryffindor, and before he'd finished Hogwarts he'd alienated his family and managed to get himself disowned. Nobody had anything to do with him for years. He was certainly never openly a Death Eater. We all knew that He had a spy inside the Order, but I was shocked, as was my wife, when Black was arrested."

"I see," said Tom. "That presents a problem, but if Black was that successful at spying, then that on top of his obvious competence in escaping from Azkaban makes him too valuable to pass up. You will pool your resources and come up with any helpful information you can about him by our next meeting."

He dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and Mulciber bowed and all but ran out the door as quickly as possible without making himself look as frightened as he was. Malfoy, on the other hand, lingered in the study. Tom looked up from his various parchments to glare dangerously at him.

"My Lord, forgive me. It's just that I wonder if you might be willing to… reconsider your position on Draco attending Hogwarts. He would be much safer at Durmstrang, and he would receive a much better education there as well. In fact, I had always planned to send him there, but Narcissa—"

"No," interrupted Tom, and Malfoy choked on whatever utterly uninteresting bit of family drama he had been about to share with him. "I need eyes at Hogwarts, and Draco has proven himself capable of meeting my expectations."

Lucius's eyes widened, and Tom imagined that he could almost see his hammering heartbeat in his neck.

"My Lord… with all due respect, isn't Draco too young to take on the responsibilities of a Death Eater? I had been planning on allowing my son to join at sixteen, the customary minimum age, but—"

"Your son?" Tom echoed, a cold smile twisting his lips. "Draco might be your son, but he is my follower. When he joins formally and what responsibilities he has in the meantime is entirely my decision, not yours. You lost that right, if indeed I would ever have considered letting you have it in the first place, when your family betrayed me."

Malfoy held onto the back of his chair as if he might fall over without it. "My Lord, I had nothing to do with my father's plot. I swear, I am your most loyal—!"

Tom took more pleasure than he probably should have in cutting the man off yet again. "You are certainly loyal to someone, but it isn't to me." He held up a hand to forestall Lucius's next protest. "I know that you had nothing to do with your father's betrayal, but I also know that the only reason he didn't want to involve you is that you never would have allowed him to plot against your son. It had nothing to do with your loyalty to me."

"That might have been his reasoning, My Lord, and of course it's true that I never would have gone along with any plan that put Draco in danger, but I would not have betrayed you even if Draco had not been involved."

Tom's smile grew wider. "I have seen your mind. You support me because you see me as the lesser evil and hope to protect your son from Lord Voldemort. If you thought tomorrow that my other self would offer a better deal, you would betray me in an instant."

His growing skills in the art made it easier than ever to pick up the rather loud half-thought that flitted across Lucius's mind before he could push it away. _If He offered Draco's freedom…_

The smile turned into a laugh. "Draco will never be free. Allow me to be perfectly clear so that we understand one another: He. Is. Mine. In fact, the only reason I am allowing you to live is that Draco is too young to take over the Malfoy estate and your various positions if I were to kill you like I am going to kill your father."

When Lucius Malfoy stumbled out of his father's study, anyone who saw him would have known immediately that something life-altering and horrible had happened to him. Tom knew that only he would ever know the reason, because Malfoy was certainly not stupid enough to mention their conversation to anyone else, especially not his wife. And especially not Draco himself.

* * *

><p>As was common for him nowadays, Tom's good mood didn't last very long at all. Almost as soon as he was left alone to his own thoughts, the weight of his failure and his to-do list pressed in around him as if he were on the bottom of the ocean. The Horcrux's excited pulses of energy at sensing his general elation brought his mind almost immediately back to the matter that had been at the forefront of his mind over the past week: He couldn't keep putting off his plans and experiments until he had another Horcrux.<p>

His attachment to the ring Horcrux, as ill-advised as it had always been, was now something he absolutely could not afford. The cup was beyond his reach, and as yet he'd had no luck trying to track down further Horcruxes.

Removing the ring from his finger felt almost as if he were removing his arm from his body, but he gritted his teeth and did it anyway. Perhaps he stared at it for too long without acting, but there was no one there to judge him for it except for the portrait of Sirius Black, which was leaning around the ring Tom had placed on top of it in order to continue screaming up at him.

With a sudden movement born of the thought that he had to either give up the idea completely or _just do it_, Tom pointed his wand at one of his desk drawers and began moving it in a complicated pattern as he hissed the password. From inside the drawer he pulled out a lockbox that had been warded as impenetrably as he knew how to make it, and from there (after several minutes of delicate wand work and chants in Parseltongue) he carefully levitated out a clear vial no bigger than his pinky.

He refused to physically touch it. He was uncomfortable enough just touching it with his magic.

Hell, he was uncomfortable enough just being in the same room with it. He could sense its presence, in the same way he might sense someone looking at him except that it was a much stronger, more tangible feeling of danger.

With a lead heart, he carefully manipulated the vial until a single drop was teetering on the edge of the rim. He watched it grow until finally it dripped off the vial, and although he wanted desperately to stop it even in that split second it was in midair, a single drop of basilisk venom landed next to the ring, just shy of actually touching it.

He could feel the Horcrux going absolutely insane, but otherwise nothing happened.

A series of spells later had the venom removed completely from the desk and the vial resealed in its lockbox inside the desk. Then Tom picked up the riotous Horcrux and placed it back on his finger, allowing himself to be swept into the Horcrux's mindscape.

He had barely had time to reorient himself before he was engulfed by frigid arms and found himself face to face with the wide, terrified eyes of the other Tom.

"What happened?" demanded the Horcrux, either not bothering to or unable to mask the fear in his voice.

Tom had been more than reasonably certain that the Horcrux had no idea what was actually going on in the real world beyond some vague impressions of Tom's strong emotions when they were in close proximity, but if he'd ever had any lingering doubts they were swept away by this. There was no way that the Horcrux could have faked such a reaction, much less that he could have hidden his anger if he'd had any idea that Tom himself had been the one to put him in danger.

"There was an attack," he said, filling his voice with all the stress he'd actually felt, even if the words were a lie. "Basilisk venom…"

He trailed off by design and wrapped his arms around the Horcrux in return, allowing his body to shudder as if at the memory. The Horcrux moaned as if it were in distress and squeezed him tighter, crushing them together in a kind of embrace that Tom had never experienced before. It was odd, being held and holding someone for purposes other than domination or pure sexual gratification. It was stranger still given the fact that the Horcrux had not touched him since their first encounter, but he accepted it with all the grace he could.

After a while, the Horcrux spoke into his ear, voice barely above a whisper. "I didn't know what was happening, but I felt like I was going to die. There was this feeling of foreboding, and then suddenly there was this… terror. All I could do was scream and struggle. And then it was gone, and I was myself again, here in this graveyard. I've never—the feelings—I don't—"

"I know."

And he did. It was the same thing he had felt when Potter had come within inches of plunging a basilisk fang into his diary. He had never felt any emotion that strongly before, and he had never felt anything close since. _Overwhelming_ seemed a bit too underwhelming a word to adequately describe the experience.

He'd needed to know whether his feelings were entirely the result of watching Potter and knowing what would happen, or if it was also at least partially the result of the connection and sensory awareness of a Horcrux that he had known existed since he'd been interacting with the ring. He'd needed to know whether a Horcrux's sensory perception extended in that way to its surroundings.

Now that he had verified all of those things, he could leave the Horcrux's mind and run the test again on the diary, just to be absolutely, one hundred percent sure that it was no longer in any way connected to him. For if it was still connected to him, he was sure that he would experience the same thing he had felt in the Chamber before his body had fully formed, the same thingthat the other Tom had just experienced, and if it was no longer connected to him then he was sure that he would feel no more discomfort than what he'd felt handling basilisk venom in general.

He had devised plenty of other tests, but none of them could provide him with absolute certainty. And he needed absolute certainty on this issue.

At the moment, though, he was more concerned with the way that the other Tom's lips kept brushing against his ear and then his jaw. He had thought it was accidental at first, but at a certain point he had to accept that it was not. That point came sometime between a brush against his jaw and the lightest touch of lips against lips. He wasn't sure exactly what his first reaction was, as all of his possible reactions seemed to come to mind all at once. It was only after he realized that he was more put off by the Horcrux's lack of body heat than by the kissing itself that his mind settled on an opportunism.

Tom had known since the first time he'd found himself in the Horcrux's mind, even before the first time it had asked to be invited into his own mind, that it was looking for a way to take over. That it either wanted to force him to reveal the exact details of how he had created his body so that it could replicate it, or, if that avenue failed, to take over his body as its own.

It was exactly what he would have done in the Horcrux's position, and in fact it was little better than what he _had_ done to Ginny Weasley.

If this was how the Horcrux wanted to play the game of trust and manipulation between them, then Tom would play along, as unconventional and unexpected as it was. He would even let himself enjoy it; after all, what was it if not the ultimate form of self-pleasure? If this form of self-pleasure came wrapped in a game that, if he lost, would result in him losing control of his own body and soul, then that just made it more exciting.

When the Horcrux brought their lips together again, he pressed back to deepen the kiss.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>Tom has so many balls in the air that it isn't the easiest task for me to juggle them (especially not within the general world limit I've given myself for chapters in this story), but I think I've got it worked out in this chapter. Please review if you have any thoughts, and thank you again to those who reviewed the last chapter!


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